


Trying to get it right

by kriskringle



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-09-28 06:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17177363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kriskringle/pseuds/kriskringle
Summary: AU—Complete canon divergence. After living together for three years, Will leaves MacKenzie to start a new job at ACN.





	1. Chapter 1

**September 2010**

_Who green-lit this shit?_   Will wonders. The segment only appeared on the rundown an hour ago so the debate over its merits must have been brief. _They must have kidnapped this jackass from a book signing at the Barnes and Noble up the block to get him here this quick._

Trying to conceal his irritation, Will addresses his guest. “You wear a few different hats. You’re a practicing clinical psychologist. You’re active in the men’s rights movement. You’re also the author of the number one book on Amazon’s bestseller list, ‘What Women Want—‘”

 _“Couldn’t we have gotten the guy who wrote ‘The Wonky Donkey’ instead?”_ Will had groused when the man’s name came up. _“That’s number two on the list.”_   Unsurprisingly, his remark barely registered with his staff: despite being the anchor of the network’s flagship news hour, Will holds remarkably little sway here. He’s still the new kid on the block, and he’s viewed with suspicion and no small degree of animosity by those who were passed over for the job.

“Let’s talk about the main thesis of your book,” Will says, deciding to start with the most idiotic crap first. “I’m going to read an excerpt: _’If you closely observe the language women use, you’ll find that what they want in a man is the ability to lead. They want to be with a man who wears the pants in the relationship. Someone who has strong personal boundaries. Someone who knows what they want.’_ But isn’t that true of anyone? People are attracted to confidence, which is neither a masculine nor feminine trait.”

“I think Oscar Wilde said it best,” the man answers. “‘Women have wonderfully primitive instincts. They’ve been emancipated but they remain slaves looking for their masters.’"

_Holy fuck._

The man’s obviously a complete jackass but Will has to admit some of the crap he wrote in his book fits him to a T: weak relationship with his father? Check. Early relationships mainly with women? Check. Desire for approval from women? Check. Heavy on the caretaking and pleasing? Check. Few relationships with other men? Check. Mother who made her son an emotional partner? Check.

What that might signify in Will’s case is anyone’s guess since he didn’t make it past the first three chapters.

“What’s your evidence for that statement?”

“It’s evolution, Will. Biology. Women are programmed to respond sexually to men who command authority and exude masculine energy. Cavewomen want their offspring to have the best chance of survival, and a man with strong, powerful genes is the prehistoric jackpot.”

Will manages to get the idiot to admit it’s really all conjecture but then the guy starts nattering about how important it is for a man to be a _man_ , to make a stand and refuse to back down.

“Against what, exactly?” Will asks him.

“Anything. Whatever you decide.”

“What if you decide wrong?”

“Do your research first, of course. But once you make a decision, stick with it. That’s what women respect. Create boundaries. Have expectations others have to live up to when it comes to respecting you. Stand firm in what you believe, even if it leaves you standing alone.”

Before Will can get a word in, the guy looks at him. “Are you in a relationship?”

“That’s not really relevant to this interview, but yes. Yes, I am.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Three-and-a-half years. But let’s get back to—"

“And … would you say your relationship’s solid?”

Will raises his eyebrows at the man. “Yes. Very. Mind if I ask the questions? Let’s talk about an article you wrote for…”

When the red light in the studio goes dark Will says a quick goodbye to his guest and beats a hasty retreat to his office, loosening his tie and shedding his suit jacket as he goes. The wardrobe man trails behind, catching each article of clothing as fast as Will can pass it to him. Will’s just about to unbuckle his belt when it occurs to him his precipitous weight loss over the last few months means there’s a very good chance his pants will fall down around his ankles—not a good look for a man who’s trying to make a name for himself.

Outside the bathroom in Will’s office, the man impatiently raises and lowers himself on his tiptoes. Thirty seconds later the door opens, and Will’s hand shoots out to give the man his pants, belt, cufflinks, and shirt. The man says a hasty goodnight, leaving Will to pull on his jeans and open the envelope in which MacKenzie has enclosed her latest gift: a soft blue shirt that matches the color of his eyes.

He shrugs it on, brings the sleeve up to his nostrils and discovers she’s already laundered it with her favorite brand of airy-fairy laundry detergent. He’s instantly transported back to the weekend before he moved to New York when she’d led him into the laundry room of their tiny two-bedroom apartment. In his mind’s eye he sees her start the wash, turn around and kiss him sweetly—so sweetly he’d had no choice but to pick her up, set her on top of the washer and kiss her until she wrapped her legs around his waist and begged him to carry her to their bedroom.

The shirt smells like her and home and he misses their life together in DC so much his heart aches—it literally fucking _aches_. Sighing, he’s just about to put his wallet in his back pocket when he notices something in the pocket of the shirt. It’s a slip of paper, with MacKenzie’s bold handwriting, the letters straight up and down and decisive.

_I love you, Billy. Wear this shirt when we meet again. –M_

On impulse, he lifts the note to his nose and inhales—gratified no one is around to see what a complete idiot he is. She obviously knows him better than he knows himself because she’s somehow infused the paper with the scent of her shampoo.

_How did she do that?_

And then he finds himself bringing the note to his lips and kissing it.

Like a _teenaged girl_.

_Christ._

It’s moments like these that make him wish he wasn’t quite so in love with her, wasn’t quite so dependent on her for his continued happiness. Whatever happened to the cool, confident guy who refused to rely on anyone because he knew it was only a matter of time before they let him down? He idly wonders (and not for the first time) what the hell he would _do_ without MacKenzie. Would he simply fall to pieces? As time passes and a resolution to their current fucked-up living situation seems further and further out of reach, that possibility seems fairly likely. He feels unstable, unanchored and adrift. Vulnerable. All the time.

It’s been that way from the moment he walked into his fancy, too-big and too-cold apartment in New York. He’s refused the majority of MacKenzie’s attempts to make it homier because to do so would be to admit defeat: his penthouse in New York is a pied-à-terre. Nothing more, nothing less. His real home is a tiny apartment in DC with leaky windows and a hot water radiator he has to bleed every fall so it doesn’t flood the floor during the winter. With _her._

He hates his new life. Largely because he can’t let go of the old one.

Sheer boredom drives him to Amazon’s virtual bookshelves most evenings. His tastes gravitate mainly toward history and politics but a few self-help titles make it onto his reading list (and for that reason alone he thanks Christ no one else has access to the contents of his ebook reader). Most of the books are shit—obviously thrown together at the last minute by people with no credentials and minimal insight—but a few make it through his bullshit detector (though he’d be the first to admit that probably has less to do with their quality than with his need to figure out why he feels so goddamned unhinged these days). He hasn’t known a moment’s peace since he moved here; the closest he gets are the fleeting moments he and MacKenzie are together, but even those moments are fraught—tainted with the knowledge that they’re soon to be parted, each of them forced to take up their now-separate lives.

He doesn’t know what to do about it in the long term. In the short term, all he knows is he doesn’t have a clue as to how he’s going to fill the next 72 hours of this crappy long weekend. Sleeping? Drinking? Playing the guitar? He has no friends in this city and no desire to make any. Nor does he have any interest in taking advantage of the Big Apple’s fabled nightlife.

He tucks MacKenzie’s note carefully into his wallet, tugs his wool coat off the coat rack and shrugs into it. All the fight has gone out of him at the prospect of a weekend alone, so he takes his time making his way to the elevator, trying not to think of MacKenzie or just how much he misses her. When he finally makes it to the lift, head down, a shadow appears next to him and the cheerful voice of his new boss makes him look up.

“Kinda let that guy get away from you tonight, Will,” the man says, “… but otherwise, good show.”

Will doesn’t have to ask the identity of the guest to which Charlie’s referring. “Yeah, well, usually I like to have more than an hour to prepare for an interview. But you’re right. It did get away from me.”

“Not to worry. You had the other guys eating out of your hand,” Charlie says, clapping Will on the back. “So … are you doing anything this weekend? Is your lady friend coming down from DC?

“’Fraid not,” Will sighs. “She has to work. I’ll see her next weekend.”

“Must be tough being separated.”

“It is.”

“Well, when are you going to make it official?”

“Soon.” He’s got the ring and the desire. What he doesn’t have is a way to make it work physically. “But first I have to convince her to move here. She’d have to find a job, and I just started this one, so …” He shrugs. “We haven’t figured out the logistics yet.”

“You say she’s the one who was responsible for the quality of your show?”

“Yep. She’s the visionary.”

“Too bad she’s not coming here this weekend. The two of you could come to Sunday brunch with Nancy and me. If she’s as good as you say she is, maybe we could find something for her here.”

Will’s eyes light up and he’s suddenly energized. _This could be the break we need._

“She’s even better than I say she is.” And then he starts rambling like the biggest sap who ever lived. “She has the best instincts of any EP I’ve ever met. She can handle anything you throw at her. It’s amazing to see her in action.”

“Not that you’re biased.”

“I am, but I’m also telling the truth. Ask anyone who’s ever seen her in the control room. She’s awe-inspiring. Really.” He guesses it sounds like he’s going a little bit overboard with the praise but he’s really not. He remembers the first time he’d observed MacKenzie in the control room when she was subbing for an EP who was off sick. Everything that could go wrong did, but she'd handled each catastrophe with aplomb. She'd confessed later that her palms were sweating so much her fingers kept slipping off the mic switch, but she never let it show, not for a second.

“Not only that, she has extremely high standards. She’ll throw you out of her office if you even try to get something into the rundown that doesn’t fulfill our patriotic duty to inform the electorate. I know, because I’ve tried.”

“I’m starting to understand why your show out of DC was so good.”

“She’s amazing. She really is. ACN would be lucky to have her. Anyone would.”

“Maybe she could give your EP a few pointers.”

Will smiles at the thought of Ralph—his surly, sixty-something executive producer—taking advice from anyone—let alone a woman half his age.

“I don’t think Ralph would take too kindly to her feedback.”

“Oh? What does she think of the show?”

“It would impolitic to say.”

“Tell me.”

“She said it should be rebranded ‘Trainwreck with Will McAvoy’ and that she hasn’t seen such venal codswallop since she interned at Fox News.”

“I’m intrigued. What else did she say?”

“That we should be ashamed of ourselves for trying to dumb down the electorate instead of enlightening it.”

“I like her already. What did she think of your interview with the senator the other night?”

“You really want to know?”

“I do.”

Will’s eyes sparkle. “I think her exact words were, “You’re lucky I’m no longer your EP because you’d be sleeping on the couch over the way you handled that interview.”

Charlie grins. “What did she think you did wrong?”

“I didn’t hold his feet to the fire for spouting that tax cut bullshit.”

“I’m beginning to think maybe I should have hired the puppeteer instead of the puppet. When can I meet her?”

“She’ll be here next Friday night.”

“Excellent,” he says, clapping him on the back. “Let’s do Sunday brunch.”

“Great.”

“Have a good weekend, Will. See you Tuesday.”

“Yeah. You too,” Will sighs, deflating quickly as he’s reminded of the great expanse of time stretching out before him.

He pulls out his cell phone as soon as he exits the building and dials. MacKenzie picks up on the third ring.

“Miss me, Billy?” she says, pulling the blanket up to her chin. It’s early for her to be in bed but it’s been a long week and right now she’s just glad to hear Will’s voice. It’s soft and sweet and she thinks maybe it’s one he reserves only for her, which makes her miss him all the more.

“You have no idea,” he says dolefully. “Why aren’t you here? I have 72 hours to kill and I would really, really like to kill them with you.” She can’t help melting at the tone of his voice. It’s yearning and a little bit desperate and she wishes she could put him out of his misery.

“You know I need to prepare for that interview,” she says gently.

“You could have done that here. Or I could have come there.”

“I need peace and quiet.” She turns on her side and smooths her fingers over the blanket. “And you, my love, are far too big a distraction. I’ll make it up to you next weekend, I promise. You heading home?”

“I guess.”

“Call me as soon as you get there. Promise me you’ll head straight for the bedroom and I’ll tuck you in over the phone. It’ll be just like I’m there.”

“No, it won’t,” he says, kicking a rock as he waits for the Town Car to take him back to his apartment. “But I will. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Talk to you in a few minutes.”

“Okay.”

Fifteen minutes later he’s taking the penthouse elevator to his apartment. When he steps inside, he sheds his coat, grabs a beer from the fridge and heads into the bedroom to call MacKenzie. If he has to be miserable at least he can be comfortable.

His face registers shock, surprise, and glee when he finds her in his bed with her laptop on her lap and a mischievous grin on her face.

“Told you I’d tuck you in,” she says, closing the computer and setting it on the bedside table.

Will divebombs onto the bed and covers her face with kisses. “You came. I can’t believe you came.”

“I couldn’t stay away from you for two whole weeks," she says, throwing her arms around him.

“What about prepping for your interview?”

“I brought some work with me.”

“When do you fly back?”

“I’m taking the red-eye Sunday night. So that gives us approximately …” she looks at her watch. “46 hours together. And I intend to make the most of it,” she says, kissing him soundly as her fingers start to unbuckle his belt.

“Not so fast, sweetheart,” he says, looking at her with concern. Her face is even more angular than when he saw her last weekend. “When did you eat last?”

“Breakfast.”

“Honey, I know you think half a cup of yogurt and a couple of strawberries counts as breakfast, but it doesn’t. Food first, then love, okay?” he says, returning her kiss. “What do you feel like eating?”

“You,” she says, sliding her hand down his pants.

“Mac, I’m serious,” he says, gently moving her hand away. “You look thinner every time I see you.”

“So do you and I haven’t been hungry.”

“Since when?”

“Since you moved away.”

When they’d decided, together, that the move to New York was something he couldn’t pass up, they’d vowed the separation was only temporary and that it would never split them apart. Every weekend was reserved for the other. They’d take turns flying to DC or New York, and after a while, every one of MacKenzie’s friends and the few people Will interacted with in New York stopped asking if either of them would like to go out on a Saturday night because they knew the answer would be an emphatic _No._ Those precious nights were reserved for loving and reaffirming a connection so strong it sometimes shocked them both.

“I hate it, too, Kenz. We can’t go on like this.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she reassures him. “It won’t be forever.” Of course, that’s what she says aloud. Inwardly, she’s not so sure: she’s submitted dozens of job applications without receiving so much as a “No, thank you,” in reply. She may be a big fish where she and Will come from but nobody in New York seems to know—or care—she’s alive.

"I’m going crazy without you," he tells her. He’s tired of only hearing her voice during their nightly phone calls and the odd time they manage to raise each other on the phone during the day. "Seeing you two days a week isn’t nearly enough. But," he says, flopping down beside her. "... salvation may be close at hand."

"Really?" she asks, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Yes, and I'll tell you, but let me order the food first. What do you feel like eating? If you can’t decide, you’re getting a burger, fries and a Coke.”

“Disgusting. Order from that place around the corner and I’ll have the tortellini with salad I got last time.”

He picks up the phone and orders. “… and do you have any of that chocolate cake you had a couple of weeks ago? I’ll take two slices.”

He hangs up.

“ _Two_ pieces of that chocolate cake?” she asks him. “They’re huge, Will. They had to carry them out in a wheelbarrow last time. You’d better call them back to cancel. Even with all the weight you’ve lost, you’ll never be able to fit into your suit.”

“They’re for you.”

“I can’t eat all that.”

“You can eat it in shifts. You have to eat more, Mac,” he says, stroking her jaw. “That’s an order.”

“So do you.” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for her to admit defeat, so she sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Can I eat you first?” She reaches for his belt, but he stills her hand.

“No.” He flops back down on the bed and puts his head in her lap, luxuriating in the feeling of her fingers massaging his scalp. “So ... you ready to hear about salvation?"

"Yes."

"Charlie said he’d like to talk to you the next time you’re in town.”

“Really?” her ears perk up. "About a job?” She says it cautiously because although working for ACN would solve every single one of their problems she doesn't want to get her hopes up. 

“I think so—you want to talk to him this weekend?” Will hopes the answer is ‘yes,’ because if she does, this nightmare could be over by Monday.

“If it would get us any closer to being together full time, then yes.”

“I’ll call him tomorrow morning. Try to set something up. God, Mac, do you have any idea how happy I’d be if you moved here? ‘Ecstatic’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Miss me that much?”

“It’s an ache,” he growls, swinging a leg over her body and kissing her.

“It is for me, too.” She sighs. “If Charlie doesn’t come through, though, we have to think of a Plan B, which means one of us is going to have to quit. Your job’s bigger than mine … though my show is much better than yours. Honestly, Billy. Who’s in charge of your rundown? I thought I was watching  _The View_  tonight.”

“Let’s just say my EP’s not you. Ralph doesn’t have your standards," he says. "Or any of your other many …  _many …_  talents.” 

She reaches up and strokes his hair, which makes him sigh with pleasure. “Is he responsible for booking the men’s right’s activist?” she asks him.

“I’m afraid so.”

She shakes her head, thinking back to all the crap the guy was spouting during a primetime broadcast. “What the hell was he thinking? Don’t men have all the rights already?”

Will pulls back and looks at her seriously.

“Men  _are_  discriminated against, Mac. We’re the ones who get sent into combat, our genitals get mutilated without our consent, we’re prescribed Ritalin practically before we’re out of diapers because teachers think anyone who doesn’t act like a girl is defective, and we’re discriminated against in family court, where women win the majority of custody cases. Laugh all you want, but the discrimination is real.”

She’s thoughtful for a moment. “I can see your point about combat, circumcision, and Ritalin. But how do you know gender is the root of discrimination in family court? What if those decisions are based on the nature of the individual partnership?”

“What do you mean?”

“The mother is often the one who spends more time with the child, and the one who does most of the parenting.”

“True. But even when you control for that, family court judges exhibit a maternal preference 77% of the time when deciding who gets full custody.”

“Well, I’d have to see the research,” she answers. “What did you think about the other shit he was saying, though? About women wanting to be dominated?”

“Well,” he says, taking each of her hands and pinning them above her head. “ _You_  like to be dominated, don’t you?”

He presses her into the mattress and dips his head down to nip at the tender flesh beneath her ear. “I like to be dominated by  _you,_ Billy,” she whispers, wrapping her legs around him so tightly her heels dig into his ass. “Sometimes. And sometimes,” she says, capturing his lips when he brings his head up to kiss her. “I like to dominate _you_ ,” she says into his mouth. “Which you love.”

“I do love,” he says, unpinning her wrists. Instantly, her arms are coiled tightly around his back and he kisses her again. It’s gentler this time, but with just as much feeling. “I love  _you_ ,” he whispers.

“Ditto,” she says as she nips his lower lip and strokes his back. “See? It’s not a man-woman thing. It’s a you-and-me thing. I’ve never wanted to be dominated by anyone else.” She propels her body up and over, forcing him onto his back, and when she’s astride him she pins his hands above his head and he gives her a wide, goofy grin.

“Me either,” he says.

“Which is further proof that we’re absolutely perfect for each other,” she tells him.

“Did we need more?”

“I didn’t.”

“Neither did I,” he says. “Can you let go of my hands now?”

“Why?”

“Because I can kiss you so much better that way.”

She does, and he gives her a beautiful, blinding kiss that takes her breath away.

“Do you have any idea how much I adore you, Will?”

“Nope. Tell me.”

“I love you more than anything or anyone. Sometimes I want to devour you, so I can carry you with me, always.”

She bends down to press her head against his forehead and closes her eyes, luxuriating in the scent of his hair and the sensation of being so close to him after five days apart.

“Guess you want to hear it from me now?” he offers.

“Mmm hmmm,” she murmurs against his skin.

“I love you more than I have ever loved anyone or anything,” he whispers, kissing her on the nose. “I love you madly. Insanely. Indecently.”

“Indecently? I like the sound of that,” she says, reaching between them for the buckle of his belt.

He stills her hand. “Not yet, sweetheart.”

“When _is_  the food going to get here?” she pouts. “I can’t hold out much longer.”

“Patience. Tell me about your show. How’s Fred doing?”

She sighs, rolls off him and raises herself on one elbow. She smooths her hand over his chest and looks at him thoughtfully. What can she say about Fred? She loves the guy, she does, but there’s a limit to what she can do with him, which is one of the many reasons she’d be thrilled to relocate to New York. “He tries, but he’s not you. There’s really no comparison.”  

“I love hearing you say that,” he tells her, his eyes sparkling. “Tell me more.”

“You have an innate suspicion of people’s motives which means you can smell their bullshit a mile away. Fred doesn’t. He thinks everyone’s telling the truth so he can’t call them out on anything.”

“Your nature is equally suspicious, Mac,” he says, mirroring her pose by propping himself on one elbow. He reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear and leans in to kiss her on the nose. “Why can’t you just feed him the questions?” he says, pulling back to look at her.

“I do," she says, "And he tries, but he’s too nice. He wants the guests to like him.”

Since there’s nothing she can do about Fred’s inability to see through his guests’ subterfuge she decides to redirect her efforts towards solving the problem at hand: her man is right here in front of her but refusing to let her have her way with him _for her own good._ She can't let _that_ go unchallenged, so she reaches her hand down and tugs his shirt out of his pants.

"Honey, you have to—" _eat_ , he tries to say, but she silences him with a kiss.

"Shhh," she says pressing herself against him. "I love you," she whispers into his mouth. "I need you. And I _have_ to have you." 

"Mac—the food," he says weakly, but his resolve threatens to evaporate the moment he feels her fingers sliding under his shirt and skating up his rib cage. 

"We can be quick about it," she whispers. She lifts his shirt higher and bends down to place small kisses where her fingers just caressed him. She smiles when she hears his soft exhalation of breath but when she starts undoing the buckle on his belt he stills her hand.

"I don't want to be quick about it. I love you and I want to show you, but I want to take my time, okay?" he tells her. "Just give me thirty minutes to get some food into you—twenty if we don't chew—and then I'm all yours." He kisses her softly, gently nibbling her lower lip as he breathes her in. "Indulge me?"

He's looking at her with such naked devotion it would hardly be fair of her to deny him.

She sighs and reaches up to stroke his hair. "Okay," she whispers. "Have it your way. I'll try to be patient."

"Thank you," he says, pulling her into his arms.

"What shall we talk about, then? While we wait?"

"How much I love you?"

"I insist we speak about _that,_ but we can do so later," she teases. "Let’s talk about  _News Night_ , instead."

“Do we have to?” he groans. “If you’re going to lay into me, the least you can do is get me drunk first.”

“I wasn’t going to lay into you,” she reassures him. “Except for letting the senator off the hook the other night, you’re brilliant. As I knew you would be. Of course, I do have a few suggestions … if you’d like to hear them …”

“What did I just say about getting me drunk?” he murmurs, cupping her face in his hands as he kisses her once more. _How he loves this woman._ “Listen. If Charlie has something for you, will you give notice Tuesday?”

“Keep doing that, Billy. God, I can never get enough of you,” she says, looping her arms around his neck. “I doubt he has anything for me, but if he does, yes.”

“So, best-case scenario, you could be here in two weeks.”

“I’d have to give a month's notice at least.”

He pulls back to look at her. “Oh, come on. Two weeks is standard.”

“Not for the EP. What do I do if Charlie doesn’t have anything for me? Still want me to give notice?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“And will you support me while I’m unemployed?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know I won’t just decide to freeload off you for the rest of my life?”

“You could do that, too. As long as you’re in my bed every night, I don’t care what you do during the day.”

“So, it’s just the sex you want.”

“Nope—I want you. In every way. Every day,” he says, reaching up to kiss her again. “For the rest of my life. I love you, Mac. Completely.”

“I love you, too.” She sighs, considering her options. She wants to be together as much as he does, but they have to think strategically. “I’ll think about giving notice this week,” she says. “But it would be much better to wait until I have a firm job offer in hand. From  _somebody_.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Will, we can’t let our emotions cloud our thinking. My reputation’s going to suffer if I only give Rick two weeks’ notice and if Charlie doesn’t come through, what the hell am I going to do all day except wait for you to come home?” She caresses his cheek, trying to smooth out the wounded lines on his face. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on our relationship, and we need to protect it.”

He knows he’s being unreasonable and it’s probably more than a little unfair to put this on her but the only thing that will get rid of the sensation that his life is completely out of control is knowing she’s going to be with him full time. If they can’t make that happen soon he feels like he is literally going to lose his mind.

“There’s not going to be anything to protect if we don’t do something,” he says.

MacKenzie’s brow furrows in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

He means he’s going crazy without her. Every aspect of his life feels off. It’s so bizarrely foreign to be here in New York, to no longer be working together. He can’t count the number of times he’s started to head for her office to steal a kiss or ask her opinion about something only to remember she’s not there, that she’s in another fucking  _state_ , and that every aspect of their lives has been turned upside down.

“I mean I am literally going crazy without you, Mac. I keep reaching for you and you’re not there. Every morning, every night, all day long. I can’t do it anymore.”

She knows how emotional Will is (despite outward appearances), but she can’t let the fact that he misses her dictate this decision. She—they—have to think carefully about what comes next. Reacting impulsively is not going to get them anywhere.

“Let’s see what Charlie says, and then we’ll decide, okay?”

 _Sorry,_ he thinks. _That is not good enough._ “I need to know this is going to be settled, no matter what happens with Charlie,” he insists.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stroking his cheek. “It’s not like you to be so insecure.”

“It’s exactly like me to be so insecure. I just try to hide it.”

“Did something happen?”

No. Nothing specific. But he feels wide open, exposed and vulnerable, and he can’t stand it. Still, he’s not prepared to admit that to anyone, even her. “Nothing. I just want our life back. The way it was in DC. That’s all.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He exhales softly. “Okay.” He supposes that’s the best he can hope for at this point, so he drops it. For now.

They spend most of the rest of the weekend in bed, only venturing out long enough for food and newspapers on Saturday and brunch on Sunday. When it’s time to leave for the restaurant, MacKenzie offers herself up for inspection.

“How do I look?” she asks him. “Professional yet casual?”

She’s wearing her trademarked pencil skirt with high heels and an expensive-looking white button-down blouse. The only casual things about her are her hair, which she’s pulled back into a ponytail, her bare legs and the soft green cardigan she’s draped around her shoulders.

“Honey, I don’t think that’s actually a thing, but you look fine.”

“ _Will_.”

“I take it back. ’ _Professional yet casual._ ’ Those are the exact words that came to mind when I saw you come out of the bedroom.”

“Should I change into something else?” she worries.

“ _No_ ,” he says, looking at his watch. They do not have time for MacKenzie to go through the clothes she packed a seventh time. “They’ll love you. They won’t be able to help themselves.”

“You’re sweet.”

“On you.”

He gives her a long, lingering hug, and she relaxes against him.

She  _adores_  this man.

_How did I get so lucky?_


	2. Chapter 2

“Ms. McHale,” Charlie says, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

“Call me MacKenzie, please,” she says, shaking his hand. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Will hasn’t said too much about his colleagues, but MacKenzie gets the impression Charlie’s the only one he really cares for.

“And I you,” Charlie says warmly, glancing from her to Will and back to her again. “Your man was heartbroken when he thought he wasn’t going to see you this weekend. Glad you could rescue him.”

MacKenzie aims a fond smile at Will. He’s wearing another one of her gifts, a soft, blue cashmere sweater that sets off his eyes and the way he’s looking at her now, his expression soft and sweet, makes her heart skip a couple of beats. “Well, let’s just say I couldn’t stay away.”

Will’s lips curve into a pleased half-smile, and since he can’t quite stop clutching her these days he loops an arm over her shoulder and pulls her tightly into his body.

They’re shown to a table near the back of the restaurant and as they walk through the crowd MacKenzie can hear the rustles and whispers that typically accompany a celebrity’s arrival. Will does his best to ignore it but she knows he’s uncomfortable with the attention. She squeezes his hand tightly, trying to reassure him.

When they make it to their table Will pulls MacKenzie’s chair out for her and sits down beside her. She scoots her chair closer to his so their thighs are touching and puts her hand on Will’s knee, stroking it idly as they exchange pleasantries with Charlie and his wife. Nancy asks MacKenzie about life in DC, MacKenzie asks about Nancy and Charlie’s daughters, and Will and Charlie talk shop with MacKenzie interjecting an incisive comment here and there.

Will can tell Charlie’s smitten with MacKenzie. Not in a romantic way, of course—but it’s clear he values her opinion because he keeps asking her to weigh in on things. Even though she’s shy at first, she offers her opinion freely once she relaxes and Will can’t help being proud of her: she can hold her own against him or Charlie or anyone else, and it’s one of the things that made Will fall in love with her. He guesses Charlie’s just another in a long line of people—men and women—who have fallen under her spell. He’s just glad he’s the one who gets to take her home.

MacKenzie likes Will's new boss and his wife. They’re warm and interesting and seem to think highly of Will, and she’s glad he seems to have at least two allies in this city.

The waiter comes around to take their order and MacKenzie hands him her menu. “I think I’ll just have some yogurt and fruit, thank you,” she says, looking up at him.

“Mac,” Will says, looking at her with concern. “I’m not trying to be paternalistic, but please have more than that.” She's veering dangerously close to skeletal territory and he’s not going to let her get any thinner. Not on his watch.

“I’m not hungry, Billy,” she says, trying to dissuade him from pressing the issue but he won’t be deterred.

“I know you’re not, but you’re wasting away. Have some eggs. Or oatmeal,” he says firmly. When he pauses and adds a half-imploring “Please?” she capitulates.

“I’ll have a side of poached eggs, too. Soft. Thank you,” she says to the waiter.

“And a chocolatine,” Will interjects. MacKenzie rolls her eyes.

Nancy looks at them, eyebrows raised.

“Will thinks I’m losing too much weight,” MacKenzie explains.

“You are,” Will tells her. “You’ve lost at least ten pounds since I left.”

“So have you, Will,” MacKenzie counters.

“Yes, but I could afford to lose a few pounds. And _I’m_ having the bacon and eggs.”

“Stressful job?” Nancy asks MacKenzie.

“No more than usual … I just haven’t been hungry.”

Nancy raises her eyebrows again, so MacKenzie continues.

“Will and I lived together when he was in DC, and I suppose it was just easier to eat on a regular schedule. We had our routines, our rituals—we’d take turns making each other breakfast, and when lunchtime rolled around, he’d co-opt an intern to spy on me. If I hadn’t eaten by 1:15, soup or a sandwich would miraculously appear on my desk. We’d have dinner after the show and … now it’s just not the same.” She gives Nancy a wan smile and shrugs.

“Well, as close as you two obviously are, it must be very difficult for you.”

Nancy’s kind and understanding tone makes MacKenzie’s lips tremble.

“It is,” she says, feeling tears prick at her eyes. She avoids looking at Will lest she burst into tears. “It’s awful being without him. It feels like half of me is missing.”

Will opens his mouth to speak but thinks better of it: they’re in mixed company and his boss doesn’t need to know how close he is to losing it. But when he sees she's close to tears he’s compelled to say something. Charlie hasn't said anything about a job, which is doing nothing to allay Will's fears. Maybe he's changed his mind? No matter. They have todo  _something_.

Will turns toward her. “Dammit, Mac, you don’t need a job to move here.”

“Will, we talked about this,” she says. “We have to think strategically.”

“I _am_ thinking strategically. We’re living in two different states, which makes absolutely no sense. Move here, find a job later.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it.”

“It’s exactly that simple. What if it takes a year for you to find a job here? Are you really prepared to live apart that long? I’m not. I can’t do it.”

“Hopefully, it won’t take that long. And in the meantime, we’ll see each other every weekend.”

“And every weekend you’ll be a couple pounds lighter. This isn’t working, Mac,” he says in frustration. “I want you with me all the time. Not just when you can squeeze me in.” He knows he’s being a total dick (and completely unfair to her) right now, knows this isn’t a conversation he should be having in front of his boss, but the prospect of spending another God-knows-how-many months in limbo is driving him insane.

Her eyes narrow. "Did you really just say that?" she says slowly, incredulously. "You’re the one who upended the status quo, Will—not me.”

She attempts to move her hand from his knee but he grabs it, holding it fast.

“Yes, but it was a joint decision. This is about getting our priorities straight. Our relationship has to matter more than our jobs.”

She snorts. “More than _my_ job, you mean.”

It’s out before she can stop herself, even though she knows this isn’t a conversation she should be having in front of a prospective employer. But where does Will get off trying to pin this on her? _He_ left _her_. They were happy in DC. Stupidly, perfectly happy. Yet she’s the one who’s supposed to give up her job? For what? To fill his apparently bottomless well of insecurity? What the hell will she be left with then? Sure, they’d have an extra ten hours every weekday together, but most of that time would be spent sleeping (okay, and doing other things she misses more than she can say), but is that worth the prospect of long-term unemployment? If he’d stop being so damned impatient, they could _both_ have what they want and need.

Will deflates quickly. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I didn't even ... " his fist clenches in frustration. " ... mean it. I just hate this, you know? I hate it."

She sighs, her anger gone. "I know. So do I. As much as you do. But we'll get through it, and everything will go back to normal, okay? I promise."

What can he say besides "Okay"? So he does.

She brings her other hand over to his lap and works her fingers into his clenched hand, pressing his fingers back so that they're no longer balled into a fist.

“Charlie,” Nancy says quickly, trying to dispel the sudden tension in the air. “Don’t you know anyone in town who’s looking for an executive producer?”

ACN might be, but Charlie is unwilling to offer her a job just yet without knowing a bit more about her.

“It wouldn’t have to be an EP position,” MacKenzie says quickly. “That’s what I’ve been doing, and I love it, but I’m open to other things. I can be a field producer, a reporter, anything.”

“She’s great on-air,” Will says, stroking her fingertips, trying to convey he’s sorry with his touch. He wishes he could make her understand just how disquieted he’s become without her, but she doesn’t have the first clue what it’s been like for him, that it feels like he’s drowning in a cesspool of unease and insecurity.

“ACN might be hiring," Charlie says. _Finally_. "But I’ll put my feelers out either way, okay?”  

“Thank you,” Will and MacKenzie say in unison.

Charlie looks at MacKenzie, studying her. “In the meantime, I’d like to hear what you think of Will’s show. He tells me you have some very strong opinions about it.”

“ _Will!"_  she says, elbowing him.

“You do, Mac. That’s what makes you so good at what you do. Last week’s ratings weren’t that great—maybe you can offer some insight that will help turn things around.”

She plasters a fake smile on her face and squeezes Will's hand hard, making him wince.  _What the hell did you tell him I said?_

Will has no trouble reading her thoughts. “I just mentioned some of the ways you thought we could improve the show," he says quickly, trying to get her to loosen her grip.  _Jesus, those bird-like bones are deceiving._

 _You are definitely going to pay for this_ , she thinks, giving his hand another squeeze. She leans forward but doesn't let go of Will's hand. “You want my honest opinion?” she asks Charlie.

Charlie nods.

“My _honest_ honest opinion?”

Charlie grins. “Yes.”

She considers what she wants to say. Will is being hamstrung by his controlling EP, but how to say that without being insulting? Oh, what the hell. Charlie does seem interested in her opinion, so perhaps she can tell it as she sees it? She decides to take a chance.

“You’re not taking full advantage of Will’s talents.”

“I’m not?”

“No _._ Will told me his EP’s constantly barking orders in his ear and that is _not_ the way to handle Will.”

“I need to be handled?” Will butts in, hoping to introduce a little levity into the conversation before he loses the use of his hand.

“You need to be finessed,” she tells him. She looks again at Charlie. “Will’s a prosecutor first and a journalist second. Let him do what he does best, which is take apart someone’s argument. He doesn’t need to be micro-managed. He needs to be given a wide berth.” She smiles at Will sweetly. “ _Unless_  he forgets to ask certain follow-up questions.” She turns back to Charlie. "Will is so good. He’s absolutely brilliant. Give him a chance to shine.”

“Do you really think I’m brilliant?” Will interrupts. “And here I thought you fell in love with my body.” She knows he's trying to get things back on track with her, and while she tries to hold on to her annoyance it's simply not in her power to stay mad at him for long. Not when he's giving her that look, not when she knows his need for her is at the root of his insecurity. She squeezes his hand again. “I fell in love with your brain first, Will. Your body was just the icing on the cake.”

“Glad I have some redeeming qualities.”

She laughs. “Every single quality you have is redeeming, Will. Which is why I can't stay angry with you, even when you're spouting the most asinine, juvenile nonsense."

 _That didn't quite go according to plan_ , he thinks, _but touché_. He puts his arm around her shoulders and leans over to kiss her hair. 

"How long have you been together?” Nancy asks.

“Three-and-a-half years,” MacKenzie says.

“And still so in love. It’s amazing. And beautiful to see.”

MacKenzie softens still more. “Oh, it’s easy to love Will. He’s damned near perfect.” 

Charlie clears his throat, attempting to steer the conversation back to more important matters. “So, how do we do that? Give him a chance to shine?”

MacKenzie turns her attention back to Charlie. “His EP needs to exert control over the broadcast but not over Will. Will’s like a magnificent prizefighter, punching and jabbing with force and precision," she says, warming to her subject. "Give him the latitude to do what he does best, which is uncover the truth.”

Charlie nods his head. “Go on.”

“His EP also has to be willing to get down in the weeds with him. Will told me you liked the interview he did with General Petraeus on our show. The reason that went as well as it did was that we started preparing three weeks in advance. We spent an entire weekend going over what Petraeus was likely to say and figuring out which questions to ask to circumvent the pat answers we suspected he’d give. It takes time and preparation but it’s worth it.”

“What else?” Charlie asks.

She leans forward earnestly. “Honestly? You need to do something that sets yourself apart. And the very best thing you could do is be of service to the American people. There’s enough trash on the air. Don’t contribute to the noise. I understand you need advertisers, but you could put butts in the seats by interspersing three trendy stories throughout the rundown. The guiding principle behind every other story should be, _is this news?_ _Are we informing the electorate about important issues or are we contributing to the noise?_ It’s our patriotic duty to ask those questions, and not a single major broadcast news network is doing that. People are hungry for information. You should be giving it to them.”

Charlie is staring at her.

“I said too much, didn’t I?” she says. She glances at Will, hoping she hasn’t screwed things up for him. “Please don’t hold what I said against Will—my opinions are my own.”

“Not at all,” Charlie reassures her. “You’re a breath of fresh air. How would you like to be Will’s EP? At _News Night_?”

Her jaw drops, and so does Will’s, whose eyes meet hers.

MacKenzie turns her attention back to Charlie. “Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. We could use your kind of thinking around ACN.”

“But … Will already has an EP. What would happen to him?”

“Early retirement. He was planning to go in a year, but we’ll sweeten the deal and he can take it early.”

MacKenzie looks at Will. “How would you feel about that?” she asks him, trying to conceal the excitement in her voice.

He doesn’t bother to try to conceal his. “My God, do you even have to ask? I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed having you in my ear.”

Things are moving quickly here. Almost too quickly for MacKenzie. “Are you sure you’d be okay with us living _and_ working together? I know we did it before, but this isn’t DC. The stakes are higher here, Will. Maybe it would be better if we waited until I found a job locally but someplace else?”

He’s tempted to begin his response with _“Are you crazy?_ ” but decides to express only the politically expedient portion of his reply.

“We’d never see each other, so that would _not_ be better. Are you worried you won’t be able to handle it?’

“God, no. I could do it in my sleep. I just want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

“Mac, you’re the best EP I’ve ever had. I’d be honored and thrilled to have you back in my ear.”

She leans in to kiss him on the cheek, then pulls out her phone to scroll through her list of contacts. She grabs a pen and piece of paper out of her purse, writes the name and number of her agent on it and hands it to Charlie.

“This is the contact information for my agent at CAA. Send him your offer and we can discuss it.”

“Tell me what you make in DC and we’ll give you ten percent more.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I couldn’t accept that.”

“Oh?” Charlie asks, eyebrows raised.

Will squeezes her knee. _What the fuck are you doing?_

“And why is that?” Charlie says.

She places her hand over Will’s and squeezes it. _Take it easy._

She takes a deep breath and forces herself to speak in her most confident voice. “ _News Night’s_ market share is 66.75% greater than where I’m coming from. I also have three-plus years’ experience getting the very best out of your notoriously difficult anchor. Plus, the cost of living in New York is 18.5% higher than in DC. Send Ken your offer, and we’ll talk.”

Will expression changes from alarmed to proud.

“You’re a tough negotiator,” Charlie says.

She shrugs. “No, I just know my own worth.”

“So do I, Kenz,” Will says to her, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing it. “So do I.”

Near the end of the meal, Charlie and Will head outside for a cigarette break, leaving Nancy and MacKenzie alone.

"Will's quite different from his on-air persona, isn't he?"

MacKenzie's guard goes up and she is instantly on the defensive. "What do you mean?"

"Before today, I'd only met him a few times. I'd seen the show, of course, and my impression was that he's very cool and cerebral. But he's really quite emotional, isn't he?"

MacKenzie's response is immediate: "He  _is_  cool. He _is_ cerebral. That's what makes him so good at what he does—he had a 94% conviction rate as a prosecutor—"

Nancy raises her hand and smiles apologetically. "Please don't misunderstand me. I don't mean that in a bad way—it's obvious he knows exactly what he's doing professionally and I know Charlie is thrilled with him. I just mean ... I've never seen a man so besotted with his girlfriend after nearly four years together. It's very sweet. Surprising, but sweet."

MacKenzie relaxes. 

"Will can be emotional in his personal life, but he would never let that affect his work; he can compartmentalize like no one else I've ever seen. It's a little terrifying, really. He can be extremely single-minded when it suits him."

"I can see that." She smiles at MacKenzie and leans forward. "I have to tell you that at least five women and a couple of men have approached me recently asking if Will is single."

MacKenzie's eyes narrow. "What did you tell them?"

"That he has a girlfriend, but I didn't know if it was serious."

_What is she getting at?_

"Don't worry. I know exactly what to tell them now," Nancy says.

"Oh?"

"Yes: _forget it_." She smiles. "You can count on me to spread the word."

"Good," MacKenzie says, in all seriousness. "Because Will is off the market. Permanently."

Nancy can't help but laugh.

\-----------

Will and MacKenzie go back to Will's apartment and spend the rest of the afternoon lounging on the bed. While MacKenzie prepares for her interview, Will occupies himself with a magazine but soon tires of his form of entertainment, so he decides to try to annoy her. 

"Whatcha reading?" he says, trying to grab the sheaf of papers in her hand.

"The same thing I was reading when you asked me three minutes ago."

"Need some help?"

"With the reading? No, thank you, _"_ she says, wresting the papers from his grasp."I mastered that some time ago. But a little peace and quiet wouldn't go amiss."

"I can be quiet."

"Really? I haven't seen any evidence of that."

He tries to grab the papers again but she holds them above his head, out of reach.

 _"Will!_ "

He gives her his most winning smile. "I just miss you, is all."

She sighs. Can't the man leave her in peace? "I'm right here."

"Yes, but you're not paying attention to me."

She laughs. "How old are you?"

"Old enough to know I want your attention."

"If you make it impossible for me to get any work done I may never visit you again."

"Luckily, you'll be living here soon, so you won't have to 'visit.'"

"Will, I have to work. Give me another hour and I'll be all yours."

"Yes, but then there's dinner and then you have to leave."

"I'll be back Friday night."

"That's too far away."

"Are you an infant?" she says, swatting his hand away as he reaches for the papers again.

"Please? Just talk to me for five minutes and then you can get back to work."

"Set the timer, then," she tells him.

"Does it have to be like that?"

"It doesn't have to be, but it is." She puts the papers down and sighs. "Fine. What is it that you want to discuss?"

"What did you and Nancy talk about when Charlie and I went outside?"

"You."

"No, really."

"Really. She said you've been the subject of much speculation among the single set."  

"What kind of speculation?" he says, suddenly serious.

She cards her fingers through his hair. "Your relationship status." 

His ears perk up. "Someone is interested in me romantically?"

"Not just some _one_ —at least seven people, apparently. And not just women."

He laughs. "You're kidding."

"I wish I was."

"And what did Nancy tell them?"

"That you have a girlfriend but she didn't know how serious it was."

"Guess she does now." He grins up at her. "Are you jealous?"

She pinches her thumb and forefinger together, then separates them and moves her fingers as far apart as she can manage. "Maybe ... this much." 

"I love it when you're jealous," he tells her. "But you have nothing—and I mean  _nothing_ —to worry about." 

"You promise?"

"I promise. I belong to you, Mac. Completely. You own me."

"Does that make you my slave?"

"I guess it does."

"In that case, I'll try to be a benevolent master."

He grins and pulls her down on top of him.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in bed celebrating Charlie’s offer. They finally come up for air around dinnertime, at which point MacKenzie eats an enormous meal. Her appetite has returned with a vengeance now that she knows they’ll soon be reunited.

They've just finished their wine when Will takes her hand. “So,” he says casually. “What do you think about marriage?”

She raises her eyebrows at him. “As an institution? I think it’s lovely.”

He brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her fingers one by one. “Not just as an institution. What do you think about marriage between you and me?”

"You're going to have to take me back to bed if you keep doing that, Billy," she sighs. "Are you proposing to me?”

“Mmmmh," he says, brushing his lips against the back of her hand. "It depends," he says, looking up so he can look into her eyes. "Would you turn me down?”

“Hardly," she says, getting up and walking around the table. He opens his arms and she settles into his lap. She loops her arms around his shoulders and stares into his eyes. "I’ve been dying for you to propose. And it would be a great relief to my parents: I’m not getting any younger, and they think you’re not serious about me.”

“Why would they think that?”

“Because it’s been three-and-a-half years, Will. And you haven’t proposed.”

“Well, neither have you.”

“I’m a traditionalist.”

He reaches down to his pants pocket and pulls out a small box. He opens it and presents her with a beautiful, old-fashioned ring that looks just like one she once described to him. “Well, then, will you marry me, Kenz?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“You will? Really?”

“Of course. You know how much I adore you.”

Relief and joy flood through him, and he leans toward her, frames her face with his hands and kisses her. Beautifully, tenderly, sweetly.

She sighs into his mouth and pulls back to give him a beatific grin. “We’re going to be married, Billy. You’re going to be my husband. I get to wake up next to you every morning for the rest of my life.”

She laughs then, a giddy, happy sound that sails through the air and straight into his heart. “I can’t believe it,” she says, threading her fingers through his hair and leaning her forehead against his.

 _It’s finally settled_ , he thinks.  _We’re going to make a life together. A beautiful, permanent life together._

He places the ring at her fingertip and slides it on. She gazes at it, then lifts her eyes to his. "I love you, Will. With all my heart."

“I love you, too. How much time do we have?” he whispers. “Before you have to leave for the airport?”

“About an hour.”

“So, we have time to celebrate a little more?”

“Mmmmh,” she says, kissing him. "What do you have in mind?"

He reaches his hand between her knees and slides his hand slowly up her thighs. “I want to make you come one more time before you leave.”

“Only once?” He kisses her neck as he moves ever closer to her center, but she clamps her legs on his hand before he can reach his target. “I love you, Will, but I don’t want to celebrate our engagement by coming all over your fingers.”

“Oh? Where do you want to come?”

She squirms in his lap and angles herself so she can reach into his pants. “All over this,” she says, squeezing his cock. He exhales softly and cups her face in his hands, kissing her sweetly.

“I think that can be arranged,” he says. He motions for her to get up. She does and he extends his hand and leads her into the bedroom where they undress each other. He pushes her onto her back and she sighs with pleasure when he angles his body over hers, delighted by the weight of him. “You won’t go easy on me, will you?” she says, in the sexy, husky voice reserved mainly for tormenting him from the control room (or to inspire feral lovemaking). He hasn’t heard that tone in months and his erection is instantly ten times harder.

“Fuck, Mac,” he growls. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve missed that voice?”

“Yes.”

“You do know what that does to me, don’t you?”

“I do. But right now, I want you to stop talking about it, and show me. Your men’s rights activist has put me in the mood to be dominated.”

“I can do that.”

He pins her wrists above her head and looks at her, mock stern. “I’m going to take my hand off your wrist and you are not going to move it. If you do, I’ll make this ten times harder on you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she says, her eyes alight with excitement.

“Good.” He slowly takes his hand off her wrist and moves it between their bodies. He takes his cock in hand, and while he’s busy with that she moves her wrist. A quarter of an inch. It’s so imperceptible she wonders if he saw it, but he did, and her breath quickens when his hand jerks out from between them. He clamps it on her wrist.

“What did I tell you?” he barks.

“Sorry,” she answers, but she could not be more insincere.

“I want you to scream my name when you come. I don’t give a fuck who hears you. But you may  _not_ come until I give you permission. Understand?”

She nods. She can feel the excitement pooling in her core, and she wonders if perhaps the men’s rights activist was on to something because she has to admit nothing turns her on as much as the manner in which Will is speaking to her right now.

She follows every instruction he gives her, only disobeying once more to test him. His response is quick and decisive and she quickly falls back in line. By the time it’s nearly over she’s half-mad with desire, begging him to let her finish. This isn’t simple lust or an act of passion. It’s something else, more animalistic, driven by the purity of instinct. It’s the meat of sex. He’s not just dominating her, he’s  _knowing_  her—tapping into the spirit within her that only he knows. Whatever the fuck this is between them swirls with emotion, nerve endings, heat, and carnal power. She tries to tamp down the sensations that are overtaking her, but she can’t hold back as he strums her from the inside.

He presses his lips against hers, and she forces her tongue into his mouth. He sucks it greedily.

“God, you feel so good, Will. I love you, I love you so much, do you know how much?”

“Tell me,” he grunts against her lips.

“Sometimes I think I’ll explode from the power of it. I love you. I need you. I need you so much.”

He brings her closer and closer and his breath is coming in short, quick gasps and sweat is beading on his forehead and then he’s on the edge so he commands her to come,  _now_. As she does, she screams his name and he can feel her rippling around him and that’s all it takes. He fills her again and again, crying out that he loves her.

As she comes down, she marvels at the power of the bond between them. She  _adores_ this man. She can’t get enough of him. She’ll never be able to get enough of him. She pulls him down on top of her and kisses every bit of his face, murmuring “I love you, I love you.”

She stares at him with wide eyes and he leans down and rests his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes and presses a delicate, sweet kiss to her lips. “I love you, MacKenzie,” he murmurs. “I love you. Don’t leave tonight. Stay with me.”

“I promised Fred—”

“Fuck Fred. I need you.”

“I promised—”

“No. I  _need_ you. Don’t go. Please.”

“Okay,” she says, smoothing his hair. “I’ll prep him over Skype. But I have to go back tomorrow night. Okay?”

“Okay. But no matter what Charlie says, you have to give notice. On Tuesday. I can’t live this way anymore. I’ve had it. I can’t do it.”

She sighs. “I want to be together, too, Will. I just want to do it right, okay?”

“Doing it right will take too long. Promise me you’ll give notice on Tuesday. Give Rick a month if you have to, but I need to know there’s an end in sight.”

“Will. Listen to me,” she says, cupping his face in her hands. “I love you more than anything in the world, but I am not comfortable giving notice without a job to go to. You keep minimizing the potential consequences of doing that—to our relationship and to my reputation—but that's your insecurity talking. I'll make a deal with you. Give me two months to find a job here. If I haven't, I will give Rick a months' notice on ..." she looks at the calendar on her watch. "...November 20. That way, I'll be here for Christmas. Okay?"

He sighs. He hates it but he knows she's right. "Okay."

She hears her phone vibrate but ignores it, too intent is she on kissing her beloved. When it occurs to her it might be work-related, she pulls back from him.

“Hold that thought,” she tells Will. He rolls off her and pulls her close as she calls her voicemail.

She can’t help laughing when she hears her ex-boyfriend’s voice.

_“Hey, Kenz. It’s been a while, but I’ve been thinking about you ...”_

“What’s so funny?” Will asks.

She holds a finger up to silence him while she listens to the rest of the message.

_“Are you still with Will? I’m going to be in town tomorrow night. Do you want to have dinner? Alone? Call me.”_


	3. Chapter 3

She deletes the message and shakes her head. “How does he  _do_  that?” she wonders aloud.

“Who? Do what?”

“Brian,” she laughs. “I haven’t heard from him in over three years but he seems to have a sixth sense when it comes to you and me.”

“What do you mean?”

“He has an uncanny ability to sense when things between us are about to be taken to the next level, and then he tries to swoop in.”

“How so?”

“He must have sensed you just proposed because he called to invite me to dinner tomorrow night. Just like last time.”

“Last time?”

Will looks at her quizzically.

“When you and I were first dating,” she explains. “He knew I was seeing you and he must have sensed I was growing more and more attached to you because he started trying to woo me back.”

It had started out innocently enough. Although not yet a big star on the news circuit, Will was considered an up-and-coming one, so the paparazzi had him in their sights. Brian—her ex-boyfriend—had seen an article in a local Washington rag headlined  _“Is something brewing between Will McAvoy and his executive producer?”_  The article had been accompanied by a collage of photos of MacKenzie and Will walking through the streets: getting bagels at a food truck, strolling arm-in-arm through a crowd, and laughing together as they looked at something off-camera.

She and Brian had broken up the month before, and she’d told Will she wasn’t ready to get into another serious relationship. Not that he was offering one: they were friends and colleagues, and they just liked to spend time together. Brian had seen the article and called immediately to ask her out, and she’d gone because she was still smarting from their breakup, which had occurred when he simply announced one day—out of the blue—that he didn’t see a long-term future for them. Truth be told, she didn’t either, but the fact that he’d broken it off with her instead of the other way around had left her ego more than a little bruised. And so, she'd welcomed the opportunity to make him jealous. She didn’t deny it when he asked if she and Will were dating, even though they weren't—exactly—they were simply friends and colleagues although she loved spending time with him.

Her relationship with Will had taken a romantic turn when he admitted he had a crush on her. They slept together for the first time that night, and the experience had shaken MacKenzie to her core. Will was the most thoughtful, considerate,  _intense_  lover she’d ever had, and every move he made seemed calculated to send her soaring to heretofore undreamed of heights. The next morning, they’d said a somewhat awkward goodbye and she returned to her apartment in a daze, unable to stop thinking about him.

She’d already planned to see Brian that night, and when they met up, Brian told her he’d been having second thoughts about their breakup. That suited MacKenzie just fine: it would have been one thing if she'd initiated the breakup, but to have him break up with  _her_? Forget it.

Will had been shipped off to California on assignment that very day. She didn’t see him for five days, and spent the entire week with Brian. They tried to resurrect their relationship, but her heart wasn’t really in it because she couldn’t stop thinking about Will: how funny he was, how gallant, how  _brilliant_. His intensity scared her, but she had to admit she was hooked.

When Will returned they slept together again, and it was as beautiful, as miraculous as it had been the first time. She’d never felt so connected to another person as she did to Will. No one had ever excited her as much as he did or taken her with such ferocity. Yet somehow, through it all, he was so gentle with her. So exquisitely tender. Will was a person with many layers and she was eager to catalog them all.

She and Will fell into a routine. They’d meet up for drinks mid-week and spend the night together. They’d meet up again on Friday or Saturday night, and he’d regale her with tales of the galas or theatre openings he’d attended since the last time he’d seen her outside of work. For a homebody like Will, she wondered later how the hell he’d made it through those first few months. He never explicitly talked about the women who accompanied him to these events, but she figured that was out of deference to her. When they started sleeping together, he made it a point to tell her he wanted to take things slow. What she didn’t know was that the only reason he’d said that was because he knew she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend and didn’t want to jump into something serious too soon.

Shewas falling hard forWill so she cooled things off with Brian. Even so, old habits are hard to break and she still saw (and slept with) him occasionally. She felt more comfortable Brian than she did with Will; she and Brian knew each other so well, and it was easy to slip back into their old relationship. Soon, however, it became clear to both of them (well, she more than he) that there wasn’t much left of their relationship to salvage.

“Woo you back?” Will says now, staring at her.

“You sound like a parrot, Will.  _Yes._ Woo me back.”

“Did he? Woo you back?”

“Well, temporarily, I suppose.”

Will stares at her, confused.

"I mean, we tried to make a go of it a few times, but all it did was remind me why we broke up in the first place. And besides,” she says, leaning in to kiss him. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

He pulls back. “’Make a go of it’? What does that mean?” He’s not angry. Just … befuddled.

“We resumed our relationship,” she says matter-of-factly. “We went out, we had dinner, we stayed at each other’s places, but it didn’t work out.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“Well, yes, but—"

_Jesus Christ. You fucking slept with him while you were with me?_

“How many times?” he erupts.

“I don’t know—we went back and forth for a few months," she says, unaware she's courting disaster.

_MONTHS?_

“Ballpark estimate,” he barks. “How many times did you have sex with him while you were having sex with me? Once, twice, three times,  _ten_  times?”

The tenor of his voice gives her pause but she has no idea what to make of it. She’s completely bewildered.  _I had every right to do what I did! You were seeing other people, too, so what the fuck are you upset about?_

He’s watching her face and she doesn’t seem the least been troubled or embarrassed by what she’s revealing.

Now she’s a little angry, a little defensive, even, but she tries to speak evenly.

“I don’t know—nine or ten?” Four or five times the first week and a couple of times a month for two months.

Memories of specific stories they’d covered the first few months they were together assail him. Specific  _dates_  they’d been on together. Nights of lust and laughter.

 _She was sleeping with someone else the nights she wasn’t sleeping with me?_ How is that possible? How could she fail to even  _mention_ it? Whenever he’d ask what she’d been up to in the days since they’d last met, she’d talk about the aspects of her job (not many) that didn't involve him. Or her family. Or the little chores she had to do around the house. She’d never once intimated that she was involved with somebody else.

For her part, she hadn’t mentioned her relationship with Brian because she hadn’t wanted to muddy the waters. They were completely separate relationships. Besides, meeting up (and sleeping with) with Brian seemed to happen of its own accord. She didn't plan those encounters; sex just seemed the customary, natural outcome of the time they spent together. They'd always communicated better that way, and despite her sense that they were largely incompatible—at least in the long term—they shared a common history, and some part of her missed him when they weren't together. She didn't realize later—until after she'd fallen in love with Will and become so comfortable with him she could finish his sentences for him—that it wasn't Brian she'd missed: it was the comfort, the ease of being with someone who knew her inside out and backward.

She didn't feel she was being disloyal to Will when she slept with Brian because Will continued to make it clear he was seeing other people. She wasn't deliberately trying to mislead him—it wasn't any of his business and she honestly thought it didn’t matter. And when she’d finally broken it off with Brian—after she’d fallen in love with Will—her relationship with Brian didn’t seem important enough to mention.

She and Will didn't discuss being exclusive until two-and-a-half months into their romantic relationship, after an incendiary lovemaking session that had left her reeling. Since she knew he was a bit of a ladies man, she had—until that point—tried to shield her heart from getting too attached to him, but at that moment, she could no longer deny or pretend she wasn't in love with him, or that she wanted him all to herself.

He, too, had been so moved by their encounter that maintaining the pretense of casualness was no longer an option. Although he was still petrified of scaring her off, he could no longer keep himself from expressing with words what he felt for her. She fascinated him. She _moved_ him. Every time he looked at her it felt as if his heart would burst right out of his chest, and he couldn't contain it for one second longer: he simply had to express it. And when he'd finally said the words she'd been euphoric, flooded with joy and relief. She admitted she loved him too, and for the rest of her life she would never forget the look on his face at that moment: a combination of surprise, pleasure and pure happiness that seemed to leap out of his eyes and into her soul. They spent the rest of the evening in each other's arms, marveling at the connection between them. That night, for the first time, he broached the subject of exclusivity: "We're doing this, right? We're together? We're a couple?" She'd nodded, cupped his face in her hands, and kissed him.

The next time Brian called she told him it was over: she and Will were together and that's the way it was going to stay.

Now, a little over three years later, Will feels as if the rug has been pulled out from under him. Worst of all, the pedestal he'd put MacKenzie on is lying in a pile of rubble at her feet.

He feels disappointment.

Betrayal.

Anger.

And fear is the strongest emotion of all.

It’s choking him, warning him to get away—a visceral reaction he hasn’t felt since childhood. What had prompted it then? His dad had taken him fishing, had actually fucking  _talked_  to him about the seventeen hundred different kinds of catfish there were in the world, only to turn on a dime and beat him black and blue when he dropped the bait. And, suddenly, he’s not just looking at MacKenzie. He’s looking at all the people who'd ever betrayed his trust.

“Where was I?” he asks her, his voice tight.

“I don’t remember. Out with your other women, I suppose. You and I weren’t seeing each other every night.”

_You were in my bed two nights a week. How could you even look at another man?_

She puts her hand on his arm to try to bring whatever the fuck is happening right now down to a non-nuclear level. “Billy, I didn’t mean to upset you. It happened before we were serious about each other.”

_How can you be so blasé about it? You’re acting like what you did was as innocent as taking a stroll down the promenade, as if it had no more import than borrowing a cup of sugar._

“I was serious about you from day one,” he says, moving away from her.

“No, you weren’t,” she says indignantly. Does she really need to remind him? Apparently so. “You were dating other people, too.”

“The hell I was. From the moment I met you I never looked at another woman.”

 _What are you talking about?_ she thinks.  _You were out with a different woman every night!_ Which is why she’s so angry now at his unmitigated gall. _Where do you get off trying to rewrite history?_

“I think you’re suffering from selective amnesia, Will. You went out with other women all the time: you flitted from one gala to another with a different woman on your arm: Erin Andrews, Christiane Amanpour, Elizabeth Vargas. I used to wonder if there was a female reporter you  _weren’t_ dating.”

“Those weren’t dates.”

“What are you talking about? Of course, they were dates.”

“My publicist set them up. They weren’t  _dates_.” His words are cold, clipped, furious.

“Well, you never told me that.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t want to scare you off by letting you know how much I liked you!”

Abruptly, he gets to his feet and goes to stand at the foot of the bed.

“Well, you should have said something because  _I_  thought they were dates!” she tells him.

She watches as he starts to pace.

“Which you used as an excuse to sleep around behind my back,” he snaps.

“I don’t care for what you’re insinuating, Will,” she says, getting up and staring daggers at him. “I’m not a mind reader: how the hell was I supposed to know they weren’t dates? And what does it matter? That was over three years ago. I haven’t looked at another man since the moment I fell in love with you, so we’re even.”

“Hardly,” he tells her. “I wasn’t crawling out of your bed and into another woman’s.”

“Well, that’s news to me,” she says, utterly bewildered.

“You thought I was?”

“Yes!”

“You thought so little of me?”

“I wasn’t judging you! I figured you were playing the field, trying us all on for size.”

“And you were okay with that?”  _What kind of woman is okay with her man sleeping around? Do I know you at ALL?_

“Yes! Because that’s what people do in the beginning: they try each other on for size. I didn’t know you’d fall in love with me any more than I knew I’d fall in love with you. How could I? We were just getting to know one another.”

“I wasn’t screwing other women.”

“ _I_  didn’t know that. I’m sorry you’re upset, but I honestly don’t see the problem here. Is it the sex that distresses you? The fact that I tried to get back together with him? What?”

“I can’t believe you could do that. I can’t believe you could fail to mention you were fucking someone else.”

“So, it’s the fucking that bothers you.”

“I would never sleep with two people in parallel and I can’t believe you would.”

“Why not? We’re not living in the eighteenth century. So long as you and I didn’t have an understanding of exclusivity, so long as he and I took precautions, what’s the problem?”

“Because I wasn’t just fucking you. I was making love to you. There’s a difference.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say I was just fucking you. I hadn’t fallen in love with you yet.”

“Were you making love to him?”

“Maybe. I didn’t think about it in those terms. I liked you, I was attracted to you, the sex was amazing with you, and the more often I saw him the contrast between the two of you became more pronounced, but I never thought you were in love with me and I always thought you were seeing other women.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You keep saying that, Will, but that’s not what you led me to believe.”

He stares at her, trying to make sense of what he’s hearing. He doesn’t give a shit that she thought he’d been seeing—no,  _fucking_ —other people. He hadn’t. He would never do that. He was in love with her before they ever went on their first date, and by date three he’d convinced himself she was in love with him—or on her way to getting there. Yes, he’d made a point of telling her about those dates so he didn’t scare her off, but he hadn’t  _really_  been seeing those other women. He’d been in— _all_ in—with her—from the moment he’d met her. He’d just been afraid of coming on too strong.

Intellectually, he can see where that might put him on shaky ground in this argument, but he can’t quite access his intellect at the moment. He can’t think—he can only feel. And what he feels is betrayed. He stares at her. And for the first time since he met her, he doesn’t see the noble, beautiful, perfect woman who inspires him. He sees someone conniving, duplicitous, and dishonest.

_How did I miss that?_

And then he’s nothing but enraged.  _Fuck you for cheating on me, MacKenzie. And fuck whoever coined the word ‘cheating.’ As if this were a card game, and you sneaked a look at my hand. This isn’t about slipping yourself an extra twenty dollars of Monopoly money. These are our lives. You went and broke our fucking lives._

Apprehension bubbles in her chest when she sees the expression on his face. For the first time in all of their acquaintance, he’s giving her a look she’s seen him give the people he _doesn’t_ love, the ones who have disappointed him. It’s stern and judgmental and suddenly, the anger she’d felt a moment ago gives way to fear.

Not of him.

Of what he’s going to do.


	4. Chapter 4

She’d told him about Brian so they could share a laugh, but he’s hurt. Not only that, he’s furious. He is blindingly angry over what he believes she did. It doesn't matter now what her intent had been.

As he continues to stare at her, the urge for self-preservation gets stronger and stronger, and the reptile part of his brain fights like hell to clamp off the vulnerable parts of himself. In the abusive system in which Will had grown up, vulnerability was dangerous—a weakness that acted as an invitation for more mistreatment. Which is why, from early childhood right up until the time he’d met MacKenzie, his need to feel invulnerable had trumped every other need he’d ever had. Up until that point, he’d spent his entire life barricading his emotional self from the world, yearning for connection yet terrified of it. The times he did try to let people in were fraught, and he found himself holding the person or their act of care as far away from him as possible, sure that whatever they were offering wasn’t really sincere, or that the overture would end the way such overtures usually ended: with Will feeling betrayed, lied to and let down. Like the times his father would be kind to him or express an interest in him, only to have that interest swing back around to rage or insincerity 20 minutes or a few hours later.

He’d mostly stopped trying to connect with people as his twenties gave way to his thirties, and by the time he’d met MacKenzie—just shy of his forty-first birthday—he’d stopped letting people in at all.

But it had been different with her.

Something about her had compelled him to take a chance. And when he finally had, after months of wondering whether it was safe to reveal his true self to her, she’d shown him what it meant to be truly loved. She’d been devoted to him from the beginning—not in a submissive or subservient way—but always solidly  _there_ , each act of love confirming that she both knew and cared for him. Indeed, she was so attuned to him it often seemed she knew what he needed before he did. Like the way she always seemed to know when a headache was coming on, the way she’d hand him two Advil when she noticed him squinting his eyes against the light. Or the way she’d rub his back after a show had gotten away from him when the transition from prosecutor to anchor was still new (she was younger than he was, but she had a full two years’ experience as an executive producer behind her when they’d met, and she’d used every trick up her sleeve to help bring him up to speed).

It hadn’t been easy for him to trust her. Not because she wasn’t trustworthy ( _or so he’d thought at the time_ ) _,_ but because every other person he’d ever trusted had let him down. Even his mother—the one person he used to try to convince himself hadn’t let him down—had, of course, and in the worst way possible: by not protecting him from his father. No, in Will’s experience the only thing to be gained from trusting anybody was ending up the loser in a game of bait and switch. Oh, the promise was often enticing, but it always ended up biting him in the ass. And so, because it was far better to be alone than to be unsafe, in childhood he had cultivated a single (if cold-blooded) reaction to people’s betrayal: he cut them off. It wasn’t premeditated. It never felt as if he had a choice; it was something he simply did. It was instantaneous and instinctive. Before he’d developed that coping mechanism, he’d been so broken when people hurt him. But later, after he had, oh my God, the relief. To just cut the fat. It was like applying minimalism to one’s entire life. No matter what situation he found himself in later in life, that old standby had allowed him to reclaim his stability. He couldn’t do that with his father, of course, until he was grown—but he could—and did—do it to anyone else who had been disloyal. His childhood, adolescence and early adulthood were littered with people he’d cast off without looking back.

And so, as he stares at her now, he does what he has always done to protect himself: he shuts down. Some self-protective instinct inside him flips a switch, and he goes numb. His heart stops thudding wildly in his chest and instead of the fear and pain he felt seconds ago, he’s suddenly hovering above the fray—a clinical, dispassionate observer of the disturbance below. The door to his heart slams shut, and every bit of what he feels for her is shoved to the back of his mind. It doesn’t take a concerted effort. It’s not even a conscious choice. The feelings are just buried.

And with it comes cold, clear clarity: 

_She can’t be trusted._

He thinks now of how wide open, how exposed he’s felt for the last three months, and how vulnerable he feels at this moment.

 _Nothing is worth that_. 

 _Nothing._  

He doesn’t need her, he doesn’t need the grief that comes with letting people get close to him. Not if the price is feeling so vulnerable, or the way he did ten minutes ago when she’d told him exactly what she’d been up to the whole time he’d been falling more deeply in love with her. When he thought she’d been falling in love with him.

He makes his decision then.

 _I_   _have to end it._

He will not go mad, he will not die. He is still whole, and whole he will remain. To those who hurt him, he will react by giving back in kind. He will be an invulnerable creature who passes through fire without being burned. His life will be a solitary achievement, accomplished through detachment. He will pass through life without suffering—invulnerable because he will never again be so stupid as to believe he can trust anyone.

The voice of his ten-year-old self is suddenly in his head:  _No one betrays Will McAvoy and gets away with it. No one._

Not even her.

“I want you to leave.”

She looks at him, stunned. “What?”

“I’m going out. I’ll be back in an hour. I want you gone by the time I get back.”

He starts putting on his clothes, but she stops him with a hand on his arm.

“You can’t _possibly_  mean—”

“I do,” he says, his voice cold and brittle, matching the look in his eyes. He finishes putting his pants on and walks into the living room where he grabs his wallet and puts on his coat.

She hurries behind him, tears sloshing perilously close to the surface, but she’s too shocked to allow them to spill over.

She shakes her head, wrapping both arms around her naked torso as she stares at him. “ _Why?_ ”

He turns around to look at her, an expression of absolute contempt twisting his features into something unrecognizable. 

“Because I never knew you at all.”

He turns away and when he places his hand on the door handle, she grabs it and yanks it.  _Hard._ So hard he teeters on his feet and has to grab the wall to steady himself. She jerks his hand back and whirls him around to face her.

“Are you  _actually_  breaking up with me over this?!”

“Yes.”

“ _No_ ,” she says firmly, even though what she feels is complete and utter bewilderment.  _What on Earth is happening right now?_   She can’t fathom it. It doesn’t make any sense.

He puts his hand on the door handle again and, once again, she grabs it.

“Have you lost your mind _,_  Will? Have you completely lost your _mind_?”

“No,” he says, his expression a mixture of cool disdain and contempt. “Just coming to my senses, actually.”

She shakes her head incredulously. “You are _not_  breaking up with me.”

“It’s over, MacKenzie.”

“The hell it is.”

“I want you gone by the time I get back,” he repeats.

She’s never been so angry in her life. How dare he try to throw away three years—hell, a lifetime—of perfect happiness all because he’d been too chickenshit to tell her the truth in the first place?

He’s trying to pin this on _her_?

Fuck that.

She won’t stand for it.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, her voice low and deadly. “And neither are you _._ You’re going to sit down and we’re going to talk. All night if we have to. I’m not letting you throw what we have away.”

“We don’t have anything. I’m leaving,” he says, wrenching his hand out of hers and putting his hand on the door handle again. “And so are you. Goodbye.”

As soon as his fingers start to turn the handle, she launches herself at him, leaping onto his back. She wraps her legs around his waist, puts her arms around his shoulders and buries her face in the back of his neck. “You are _not_  leaving,” she hisses.

“Get off me, MacKenzie.”

“No!” she says. “I won’t. I’m never letting you go.  _Ever."_  His skin is hot against her face and she breathes him in, refusing to believe what he’s telling her. How can he possibly be serious about this?

He can’t exactly haul himself out into the hallway with a naked woman clinging to his back. He exhales softly, considering his options. “Get off me, and we’ll talk.”

“Go into the bedroom,” she says, looping her legs more tightly around his waist.

“MacKenzie—”

“ _Now_.”

He turns around and staggers to the bedroom, off balance because she’s hanging off the left side of his back.  

“Over by the bed,” she says. He rolls his eyes but does as he’s told. When he stops, she slides down his back, stalks back to the door, shuts it, and locks it. She grabs one of his shirts from the laundry basket, angrily pulls it over her head and shoves her forearms into the sleeves. One of them happens to be inside out, which only enrages her further, so she shoves her fist into the shoulder opening as hard as she can and hears the satisfying rip of fabric as her fist punches its way through. Her hands balled into fists, she stands guard at the door: if he wants to leave, he’s going to have to go through her first.

“Sit down,” she tells him. “On the bed.”

Reluctantly, he does as she asks.

“Now you’re going to explain to me what the  _FUCK_  has gotten into you, Will, and how you went from asking me to marry you to breaking up with me in the space of forty-five minutes.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.”

“Oh, really? How do you figure?”

“It’s my life. And I don’t want you in it.”

She snorts. “After three-and-a-half years of living with you and loving you, that’s it. That’s all I get.”

“Yep.”

“Not good enough,” she bites out.

“Sorry to disappoint.” He looks at his watch. “You’re going to miss your flight.”

_Is he really doing this? He can’t be. He just can’t._

Until this moment she’s been operating purely on instinct, but it occurs to her now that Will doesn’t respond well to being backed into a corner. His worst quality is that once he gets an idea into his head, he won’t immediately turn it loose (in his personal life, anyway)—even when evidence points him in the opposite direction. But she's mildly comforted by the fact that he always, always sees the light. Eventually. Given enough time and distance.

Perhaps her best hope for turning this shitshow around lies in giving him the space and time he needs to come to his senses?  _No, I can’t leave. Not like this_ , she tells herself. _But ... maybe it would be best_? her mind counters. She’s coming back Friday, so that should be enough time for him to re-evaluate his thinking. They’ve never had a fight like this, but there's a good chance that if she gives him time to think, he’ll be begging for her forgiveness the second she steps foot inside his apartment next Friday night. 

She takes a deep breath and wills herself to remain calm. “I’ll go. But I’ll be back Friday night, and we’re going to fix this.”

“No, you—”

She walks over to him and puts her fingers to his lips, shushing him. “Stop. Don’t say anything you can’t take back. You’re not breaking up with me, Will. I won’t allow it. We’ll sort this out next weekend.”

She gets dressed as he watches her with those cold, blue eyes. She slings her bag over her shoulder and looks at him, still unsure whether she should walk away, but the look in his eyes—the cold, hateful look in his eyes—makes her decision for her. She’s not going to get anywhere with him tonight.

“I love you,” she tells him, unwilling to believe he no longer gives a shit. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

He stands up, walks over to where she’s standing and puts his hand on her shoulder. She turns her head to look up at him, and when she sees the unbridled contempt in his eyes, she’s powerless to prevent the tears from falling.

“Don’t come back,” he tells her, his voice cold and detached. “I don’t want to see you again. It’s over.”

She wipes her eyes and squares her shoulders more defiantly than she feels. “I’m coming back, Will,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “Whether you want me to or not.”

“You’re not listening to me, MacKenzie,” he says stepping so close she can feel his breath on her lips. At another time—thirty minutes ago, even—being this close to him would have been a prelude to a kiss. But there’s no mistaking the malice in his expression now. And the tone of his voice—both emotionless and menacing—transforms the words he utters into the most cutting, vile thing he’s ever said to her: “I don’t want to see you again.  _Ever_.”

She blinks, recoils. How can he mean that? How can he possibly mean that? It doesn’t make any sense.  _None_  of this makes any sense.

“I don’t understand, Will,” she whispers, her voice halting and full of tears. “I don’t understand. I _love_ you. And you love _me_.”

He just stares at her. _You’re acting all hurt and stunned?_ _As if I’M the asshole? Fuck you._

Her immense self-pity, her demand for sympathy pours and spreads itself in pools at her feet.

All he can do, all he  _will_ do is pull his pant legs a little higher so they don’t get wet.

“I love the woman I thought you were,” he says slowly, and then he works to destroy every last bit of the connection they share. “But who youreallyare is a cheating. lying.  _w_ _hore_ _._ You make me sick _._ ”

He enunciates every syllable and every syllable is a body blow. Her hand is out before she can stop it, but he grabs her wrist to prevent the slap from landing on his cheek.

“How  _dare_ you?” she cries. “I didn’t cheat on you! I thought we were both seeing other people!  _Both_  of us! Because that’s what you told me!”

He drops her wrist. “I never said they were dates. And if that’s what you inferred to justify your infidelity, that’s on you.” He turns away from her. “It’s over.”

Is this really the end? After everything they’ve been through, everything they’ve been to each other? She can’t believe it. She simply can’t believe it. But he’s standing there, immovable and wooden, looking at her with absolute contempt.

And then she can’t help it.

She dissolves into tears.

“I don’t want it to be over,” she cries, but he feels nothing. Absolutely _nothing._

“I do. Goodbye.”

“Please, Will,” she whispers. “Please. Don’t throw what we have away.”

“We don’t have anything.”

And then the rage is back. She is not going to tolerate his idiocy for one second longer. “We have _everything_ together, Will!” she shouts.  _“Everything!_ No two people on the planet have more together than we do! I don’t know what thehell is going on with you right now, but you know what we have! Deep in your heart, deep in your soul, you  _know_  it!"

He’s silent. Just continues to stare at her as if she’s a bug on a pin. She shakes her head, trying to clear it. Although everything inside her is crying out for him to grant her a reprieve, she sees no confusion in his eyes, no wavering, and therefore, no room to make any inroads. The words she wants to utter ( _How can you possibly tell me you never want to see me again? How is it possible that’s the way you feel?_ ) stick in her throat.

 _What can I do?_ she thinks in despair. Nothing. _Nothing._ She’s lost the power to influence him, so she forces herself to square her shoulders and stand up a little straighter.

She’s done debasing herself.

If he wants to cut her loose, he can go fuck himself.

She takes one last, long look at him. "When you finally remember what we have together, give me a call. And maybe,  _maybe_ , I’ll be willing to talk to you."

She takes off her ring, thrusts it at him, and grabs her case before heading into the elevator without looking back. As the doors close behind her, she dissolves into tears once more.

_How can it be over? How?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't been able to get this story quite the way I want it (hence the delay in updating it), but I've decided to post it anyway so I can get it out of my hair. Thanks for reading!

The stranglehold Will has over his emotions gives way as the elevator doors close behind her and a river of grief—raw and aching—cascades over him. He wants to break every bit of furniture in the apartment, rip every strand of hair from his head and put both fists through the wall.

_I should never have trusted you. I know better. I’ve ALWAYS known better. How could I have been so stupid?_

The pain racks his body, and he has to clench his hands into fists to force it back down. He won’t give in to it. He _won’t_. He won’t fling himself down the emergency egress staircase next to his laundry room. He won’t race her to the bottom and beg her to stay. Hot tears fill his eyes as the stranglehold gives way _again,_ and he furiously swallows the choked sob that erupts from his throat.

_How could you sleep with that asshole on the nights you weren’t sleeping with me? And then you try to pin it on ME? I would never sleep with two people at the same time. EVER. What kind of person do you think I am? Some profligate playboy? YOU?_

He takes a deep breath and wills himself to shut it down.

Enough.

_Enough._

He stands there woodenly, unable to think of what to do now that his life is over. He’d like to grab a stiff drink from the liquor cabinet three feet away, but he can no longer depend on his body to get him there. It ignores his every command and refuses to carry the rest of him to his destination.

_Has she gotten a cab yet? Is there still time? If she’s already gone, how am I going to—_

Enough.

He takes a deep breath and forces every bit of feeling back down.

If only he could do the same thing to the thoughts whirling around in his head like a cut-rate church chorus. The low bass voices carry the sounds of his despair ( _You never loved me—it was all a lie_ ) while the high-pitched, shrieking sopranos carry his fury, their tones discordant and off-key _: Damn you, damn you, damn you_.

He stands there, eyes fixed on the elevator door, half-expecting her to pop back in. She could. She has full building privileges. _Maybe I can …_

_ENOUGH._

Gradually, he becomes aware of something digging into his clenched fist. He brings it up, opens his palm and a fresh wave of grief washes over him when he sees her engagement ring. He’d had it custom made at Tiffany after his weeks’ long search on foot—clutching a picture of the ring she’d admired in that ridiculous romantic comedy she’d made him sit through—had yielded nothing. He’d only been waiting for the right time—the moment when he knew their marriage wouldn’t have to be conducted long distance—to give it to her. He closes his fingers over the ring and walks unsteadily over to the side table where he slides open the drawer, drops the ring in and slams the drawer shut.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. It doesn’t matter. He’ll survive. He’s been through worse than this, hasn’t he? Well, not quite like this. He’s never felt searing pain _quite_ like this, the kind that threatens to choke him with every breath. He’s sure as fuck familiar with surviving betrayal, though, and the knowledge that he’s done _that_ , countless times, gives him strength. Like the time his dad had surprised him by taking him—and only him—to the county fair. It had been a wonderful day. His dad had bought him cotton candy and Will had been thrilled. It was only later that night that he’d heard his dad hissing to his mom that he’d done what she’d asked, he’d taken that little shit to the fair. _Are you SATISFIED, you bitch?_ The cruel, malevolent words had echoed down the hall and reverberated in Will’s own chest, beneath the OshKosh button-down his mom had bought special for that day.

_Oh._

He’d learned that night that people will manipulate you and lie to you and hurt you and there’s nothing you can do—certainly not at age six. All you can do is steel your heart against them and not let anyone in. And so, he had. For the rest of his life, he had. Until he’d met _her_.

He digs deep now, digs down, down, down into his psyche to pull up the barricade that has always let him survive emotionally. He snaps it firmly in place and breathes out.

There.

Safe.

The action allows the pain to recede and then he’s flooded with something else: relief. A kind of freedom. Which makes absolutely no sense to him: he’d never wanted to be free of her before … he’d only wanted to be free of the gnawing insecurity that has permeated every aspect of his life since he moved here. And somehow, inexplicably, as his breaths start coming deep and measured instead of frantic and clutching, he’s sure he will find the peace that has eluded him. Without her, he’ll no longer be subject to the vagaries of the heart. He’ll be impervious. Sanguine. Centered. Focused.

And that will be enough.

It’s time to gather his dignity and move on. He’ll give himself three months to mourn his lost hopes and then he’ll find himself a loyal woman to replace the one he’s lost. He’ll never allow himself to be so vulnerable again of course, or to love anyone with an intensity that makes his insides burn, but perhaps he can find a woman for whom he can feel some affection—not too much—but enough to ease his loneliness.

His feet turn away from the side table and transport him to the liquor cabinet. The decanter of whiskey is heavy in his fist as he pours out one nearly overflowing glass after another, gulping them back down in quick succession. He carries himself to the bedroom as soon as the nausea hits and lies down until sleep—fitful and merciful—claims him.

\---

Weeks pass. And though the death grip he exerts on his feelings provides some comfort, it's not as if he's suddenly bursting with joy. In fact, the only entity happy with the new arrangement is the self-protective part of himself he’d shunted off into the corner when he and MacKenzie were together. It bursts out of his psyche like a wild animal—a gleeful despot delighted to be back in charge. Will gives it free rein because it divests him of responsibility for what he knows—on some level—is a Will McAvoy-engineered fucking tragedy.

Still, it feels good to be invulnerable again. Natural and right. _Just._ Which is why he doesn’t go after her—even though being without her is a physical ache, even though he catches himself dialling her number at least five times a day. Instead, he takes a perverse pleasure in travelling down a fork in his road that came out of nowhere.

He reads tomes like “Leave a Cheater, Gain a Life," which ridicule anyone stupid enough to reconcile with the person who wronged them (" _What did you do to make this bad thing happen to you? Fuck that person. You were chumped. Someone’s crappy, entitled behavior did this to you.")_ , and “No More Mr. Nice Guy!” which urges him to become the best version of himself, to live with integrity and stop seeking approval from women. (" _Don't settle. Every time you settle, you get exactly what you settled for. Don’t let anyone treat you badly. No one. Ever. Don't tolerate the intolerable. Ever.")._

(“When Good People Have Affairs” is one book he doesn’t buy.)

Thus fortified, he’s able to maintain an iron grip on his emotions during the day but at night it’s a different story: MacKenzie lives just outside his consciousness like a noisy neighbor who bangs on the pipes and occasionally shows up at the door. At least three times a week he awakens drenched in sweat from yet another dream of her, wondering how she is, whether she’s eating enough or whether she's suffering too badly under the weight of their breakup. He alternates between hoping she is and hoping she isn’t. And, when he isn't dreaming about her, he catches himself reaching for her, extending a hand to her side of the bed and smoothing his palm over the cold sheets.

He tries not to think about what that might mean.

And then she starts to haunt his daylight hours, too. One morning he nearly spills his coffee down his shirt when a woman about her height passes him by. Her hair’s a little longer than MacKenzie’s, but she has the same gait, the same general build. It’s only when he peers eagerly into her face for confirmation that he discovers it’s someone else. The disappointment he feels is almost palpable.

_She never loved me. It was all a lie. How could I have been so stupid?_

He can’t forgive her, but he can’t forgive himself, either. Because he still loves her. Passionately. He hates that he still loves her, hates that he still needs her. And even though his brain burns with torturous thoughts of her cruelty and calumny he misses her so desperately his chest aches.

Best not to think about _that_ , either.

But he soon discovers that there are some realities that cannot be silenced or ignored away: like the fact that his life is so much _darker_ without her. It’s certainly darker at home, where he continues to reach for her when he’s half asleep, where he finds himself unscrewing the cap off the shampoo she left in his shower and bringing the bottle to his nose, inhaling the scent of her. It’s darker still at work. He still feels as if he can’t breathe in this newsroom, and everyone and everything around him still feels foreign. He still feels lost and adrift, only now he feels it and doesn’t have anyone with whom to share it (though truth be told, he’d been too embarrassed to share it with her before, and sometimes he wonders if maybe he should have).

It’s no better with other women, either, who seem to be interested in him for all the wrong reasons. A couple do seem interested in _him_ though, so he focuses his attention on them. He no longer goes for the blondes he used to go for, and even he can’t delude himself into pretending he doesn’t know why. Amazon’s virtual bookshelves soon begin to lose their appeal, so when a petite, brunette producer from a rival network starts chatting him up at a conference, he asks her out. They go to dinner a few times and while he enjoys her company (well, enjoys not being alone), she doesn’t hold his interest for long—mainly because he can’t stop comparing her to MacKenzie. Subconsciously, at least. Okay, maybe a little consciously.

That doesn’t stop him from trying to sleep with her, though, because she seems to expect it.

He can get through the kissing part well enough (even though it feels wrong on every level), but when it’s time to take it further, he just … can’t. Nothing in this woman inspires what MacKenzie inspired in him, even after they’d been together for years. He used to wonder when the sex would become vanilla with her, but it never had. She aroused him. Physically, certainly, but mentally and emotionally, too. He’d never felt so connected to anyone as he’d felt to her, never been so attracted to anyone as he’d been to her, which made their lovemaking feverish and all-consuming. Always. This woman isn’t MacKenzie (or the MacKenzie he’d been stupid enough to think she was, he reminds himself). She doesn’t even come close. So, in the end, he tells her the truth (well, part of it, anyway): he just got out of a relationship and apparently isn’t as ready as he thought he was to begin dating again.

He sends her home.

He tries once more with another woman who reminds him a little bit of MacKenzie but that relationship, too, ends in embarrassment. He simply can’t perform, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to again.

So, he stops dating.

And tries to focus on improving his standing at ACN instead. Here, too, however, his efforts are in vain. His ratings have been steadily climbing in recent months but whenever he tries to exert a little more influence over the rundown the hostility toward him is palpable: everyone’s loyalty is still with the reporter who didn’t get Will’s job. Hell, at this point, even Will wishes Charlie had gone the other way because he fucking _hates_ his job. Mostly because he hates nearly everybody he works with. They're probably (maybe) fine on their own but every single one of them belongs to some stupid office clique and because Will has zero tolerance for that shit he remains on the outskirts, unwilling to join in. If MacKenzie was in his life she'd no doubt be encouraging him to try to win the hearts and minds of one or two people at a time—if only to grease the wheels in case he ever needs one of them—but he won't: she relinquished her power to influence him the moment she decided to tell him about screwing around with her ex.

Life goes on. But it matters not where Will is or what he’s doing—nothing eases his sorrow. In his bed, asleep; on his balcony, drinking; in his Town Car, hurtling across the city; or here, in ACN’s newsroom, surrounded by the trivial and banal. Instead, everything seems designed to make him miss her more. Nobody to whom he talks challenges him the way she does. Nobody with whom he spars is quite so witty. Life is dull and grey in her absence.

He has even less inclination to eat than when they were together, and his precipitous weight loss begins to worry both the wardrobe department and his boss. Meals drag, and his nearly empty reservoir of composure wears thin. In the AWM commissary, he becomes overly conscious of the way the anchor of the seven o’clock scrapes her teeth on her fork and the cacophony of idiotic conversation around him. He tries to eat but soon pushes his plate away, three-quarters of it filled with food the poor Nebraskan in him feels horribly guilty for wasting. He breathes in, then breathes out, but nothing eases the constriction in his chest.

 _I thought you loved me. But it was just a game to you, wasn’t it? You just wanted to see how long you could you string me along until …_ what _exactly?_ That thought gives him pause. _What WAS her end game? Why would she waste her life on someone she didn’t love?_

He can’t quite work out that part of the puzzle, so he puts it out of his mind, only to be replaced by another unwelcome thought: _I miss you so much._

It’s a terrible misfortune that a love so deeply felt cannot be wished away or shed like a snake’s skin. The remnant of theirs is now a dull but persistent ache in his chest, a burden it seems he’ll be destined to carry for an eternity. He’d read poems about the tortures of the heart but he’d never actually experienced them himself until his ill-conceived move to New York had split them apart. The pain was only intermittent then, but it’s unrelenting now—an intense, unbearable _longing_. This isn’t intellectual—it’s an actual, physical experience in his heart and in his stomach.

His obligation to his job keeps him functioning, but the damned purgatory in which he exists admits neither joy nor pleasure. And so, he reverts to his former self: a man who exists but doesn’t live. And, really, how could it be otherwise? The fire in his life flickered out when MacKenzie took her smiles and his hopes for their future back to DC.

Life goes on. Miserably. Until one evening, about eight months after the breakup, he has dinner with Roger, a childhood friend from Nebraska who’s recently relocated to New York. Will has successfully evaded Roger’s calls for weeks but his message of three days ago—in which he threatened to ask Will’s sister to do a wellness check if Will didn’t show up for dinner tonight—forces him to rise above his inertia.

Roger is horrified when he gets a good look at his friend for the first time in over a year. He’d noticed Will’s face had been looking more angular onscreen but had chalked that up to studio lighting. Without makeup, Will is gaunt and pale with heavy shadows under his eyes. His hair’s unkempt this Saturday night, and the stubble that covers his chin makes his face look as though he hasn’t washed it in weeks.

“Nice to see you,” Will says when Roger sits down at their table. He offers his hand perfunctorily but doesn’t bother to get up. The weariness in Will’s voice is thick, like a slab of meat covering a blackened eye.

“What the hell happened to you?” Roger exclaims.

Will gives Roger a dour glance then looks around the room for the waiter. His gaze settles on a whiskey bottle, and motions to the man to bring it over. The man fills Will’s glass, but when he attempts to take the bottle away Will touches his arm, indicating he should leave it on the table, presumably because he’s intent on imbibing the whole bottle. 

“Nothing. How have you been?”

“Will. You look like _hell._ What’s going on? Is MacKenzie alright?”

He looks down and swirls the scotch around in the bottom of his glass. “Presumably,” he says, not looking up. “We broke up.”

“ _What?_ ”

When Will tells him the story, Roger doesn't even try to hide his surprise: Will hadn’t been completely absent from Nebraska in recent years—usually popping up for the odd wedding or funeral—and the last several times Will had visited he’d been glued to MacKenzie’s side. Will tries not to get into the details of his and MacKenzie’s sundered union but Roger always been a nosy sonofabitch so Will finds himself revealing more than he intends: Charlie’s job offer, their engagement, the utter joy he felt knowing things were finally going to be settled, her confession, tears, fierce denials, and her parting shot, that no two people on the planet had more together than they did. And, finally, he tells him of the aching, burning, roiling pain in his stomach for which there is no remedy.

Will finishes recounting his tale and waits for the sympathetic murmurs to start rolling in. He has no doubt they will because Roger is unflaggingly decent. Six months’ Will’s senior, Roger is the big brother Will never had. Roger and his family had been Will’s saving grace when he was growing up: everyone in the neighborhood knew John McAvoy was a shitty human being, so the neighbors had done what they could to help Will and his siblings. In those days, kids came home for lunch every day, and from second grade through junior high Will went to Roger’s house for tomato soup and a cheese sandwich. When they were younger, they would race each other back to school on foot before the second lunch bell rang. When they were older, they’d ride their bikes. Will never forgot Roger or his family and he saw them every time he went back home.

As Will gives his friend a full and honest account of everything that’s been said and done, Roger shakes his head incredulously in some places and nods in sympathy in others. Still, he has trouble hiding his incomprehension.  

“Yeah, but when did she cheat on you?”

“I just told you. In the beginning.”

"No, you said you were out with a different woman every other night. When did the _cheating_ happen?”

“I wasn’t _out_ with them, Roger. They were photo ops. I told you—my publicist thought I could use the exposure.”

This observation does not strike Roger as entirely logical but overwhelming logic once committed to an ill-conceived course of action has never been Will’s most distinguishing characteristic. “Did she know that?”

“I—” Will pauses. And then says, reluctantly, “She said she didn’t, but she was obviously lying. I mean, come on. We were spending two or three nights a week together. Did she really think I was jumping out of her bed and into someone else’s?”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“Because I’m not _like_ that. What kind of person sleeps with two people at the same time?”

“Someone who thought you were doing the same thing?”

“I wasn’t.”

Roger pauses, then looks at him with real concern. Why would Will tell MacKenzie he was dating other people and expect her not to believe it? And why the hell can’t he see his own part in this debacle? "Are you alright? Seriously. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What’s the real story? Why did you really break up with her?”

"I just told you. She _cheated_ on me.”

Roger looks around as if to confirm the absence of a camera crew from _Punk’d._ He returns his gaze to his friend.

“And this is a full accounting of her sins. You’re not leaving anything out? I mean, she didn’t kill kittens or run over babies in her spare time?”

“No.”

Roger stares at him. “Well, then, _Dunc_ ,” he says, using Will’s much-hated childhood nickname. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news but she didn’t cheat on you.”

“What?” Will says indignantly, hot fury welling in his chest. “Are you telling me you think sleeping with two people at the same time is okay? Weren’t you part of the _Abstinence is best_ crowd?”

“That was after our time, you nitwit. And no, I don’t think it’s okay, but I’m from Nebraska.” He takes a sip of scotch, then looks up at his friend. “Maybe I would if I grew up in a globetrotting cosmopolitan family.” He swirls the brown liquid around in his tumbler, inspecting it as if hoping to discover the secret behind his friend’s bizarre behavior. He sets the glass down on the table before looking back at Will. “And she was right, you know: so long as you two hadn't agreed to be monogamous and she and her ex were having safe sex, she had every right to do what she did because she thought you were doing the same thing. Because that's what you _told_ her."

“I never told her I was sleeping with them!” Will leans forward and speaks earnestly, a pained expression on his face. “Why are you defending her, Roger? She never _loved_ me. It was _all a lie_. A great big, beautiful _lie_.”

 _Jesus_ , Roger thinks. _Either you’ve been watching too many telenovelas or you’re certifiably insane. When was the last time you got out of your own head?_

“You don’t have many friends here, do you?” Roger says suddenly, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“What?”

“Anyone who can keep you tethered to reality. They pay you to pontificate on TV every night, so now you think you’re a fucking genius.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The story you’ve been telling yourself isn’t true, Will. It isn’t. She _did_ love you. As much as you loved her.”

“Oh, yeah? How do you know?” Will asks.

“Because I have eyes.”

“And what did you see?”

“Someone who was madly—if inexplicably—in love with you,” he says, leaning forward. “Look. Remember that party you guys took me to? The one in DC? It was packed with famous people: congressmen, actors, professional athletes, you name it. I saw at least five guys flirting with her, and she couldn’t care less. No matter who she was talking to, she was always looking for you. Making sure she knew where you were. I know, because I was watching her.”

Will’s conviction momentarily falters as he’s assailed by images of that party. They’d been together a year at that point, and he’d never been happier. Had never even _conceived_ of being that happy. He swallows. “Why? Why were you watching her?”

“It was something The Asshole said,” Roger tells him, invoking Will’s childhood nickname for his father. “He told my mom MacKenzie was a gold digger. I’d only met her a few times and I didn’t think she was, but … I wanted to be sure.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think, you dumbass? To make sure she was good enough for you.”

Will is silent, trying to gather the courage to speak over the growing lump in his throat, afraid to hear the answer to his next question but compelled to ask.

“And what did you decide?”

Roger snorts. “That she was more than good enough for you. Too good, in fact. An impression that was re-affirmed every time I saw her.”

_Could that be true? No. You saw what you wanted to see. She never loved me._

But before he can refute Roger’s claim, the man cuts him off. “You want to know how else I know she loved you?”

Will shakes his head.

“No? Too bad. I’m going to tell you anyway. Because that’s what she told Joanie when you came home for Ted’s wedding.”

 _Oh, please. As if that proves a goddamned thing._ “Why the hell would she tell your niece she loved me?” Will says, remembering the petite, mousy girl glued to MacKenzie’s side the entire evening. (“You’ve got a fan,” Will had teased her when he’d finally been able to get two minutes alone with her at the condiments table. “She wants to be a reporter when she grows up,” MacKenzie had told him. “She wants to interview you for her school paper, but I told her you’d have to do it tomorrow because we have to go back to the hotel soon.” She’d trailed her fingers up his bare arm and looked up at him suggestively. “We do, don’t we?” Will could only growl in reply.).

Roger rolls his eyes. “Because Joanie’s a fifteen-year-old girl who wanted to know what it was like to be in love," he says in a singsong voice. “MacKenzie told her she thought she’d been in love before, but she never knew what true love meant until she met you. _You_ , you idiot,” Roger says, picking up his menu.

“Big fucking deal,” Will retorts. “She was lying.”

Roger puts the menu down. “Why would she? Joanie said she was giving you googly eyes the entire time she was talking.”

“Probably wondering how quickly she could ditch me and hook up with her ex.”

“Bullshit,” Roger tells him. “You know what else she said? It’s absolutely ridiculous but I’m repeating it as a public service. She said there were no words in the English language descriptive or powerful enough to describe how much she adored you.” He looks at Will, silently urging him to pull his head out of his ass since he knows a direct plea will get him nowhere. “And I _know_ you felt the same way about her, Will. It was obvious. Embarrassingly, nauseatingly, pathetically _obvious_.”

“I was a fool.”

“You sure as hell are.”

“ _Were_ ,” Will snaps. “She was screwing another guy while pretending to be in love with me, Roger. I broke up with her. That doesn’t make me a fool. That makes me the smartest guy in the room.”

But Roger’s patience has worn thin. “I’d sympathize with you, Dunc. _If_ that was actually what happened. But it isn’t. You lied to her, she acted on it, and then she fell in love with you. And I’ll bet my left arm she loved you right up to the moment you broke her heart.”

Will’s mouth opens to speak but he closes it. _Could that possibly be_ — _no_. _If that was true, that would make me the asshole. Completely in the wrong. No fucking way._

He looks down at his drink.  

Roger tries another tack. “So … you haven’t talked to her since you threw her out?”

“No,” Will says, looking up. More than a twinge of guilt needles him. He hesitates. “She keeps sending me letters, but … I don’t read them.”

“So, you’re ghosting her. True to form. You’re utterly predictable; I’ll give you that.” He sits back in his chair and gives Will a disapproving look.

“She—"

Roger points his finger at Will. “No, Will. Not _she_. _YOU_. YOU did this.” He sits back in his chair. A thought occurs to him then, and he looks at Will with narrowed eyes. “But you already know that, don’t you? You know she didn't deserve it, but you're so intent on following this stupid path you're on you refuse to get off it. Jesus. Can't you see it’s Kevin Baker all over again?"

“What are you talking about?”

“You thought he was the one who told Mrs. Keats you threw that baseball through her window when it was Joe. You never forgave Kevin—even when you found out it wasn’t him.”

“Kevin was an ass."

"You never thought so before."

"I didn't know so before." Still, there's a nagging thought that’s never been there before: _what if I was wrong?_ The crack of light at the edge of his consciousness begins to grow brighter, even if he's not yet willing to openly acknowledge what it’s beginning to illuminate.

Will can feel Roger's eyes boring into him as he stares down into his glass. Did he really do the same thing to MacKenzie he'd done to Kevin Baker? He recognizes the fact that he’s always taken a kind of perverse pride in cutting people out of his life and in his ability to shut down anything he doesn't want to deal with but in this case, did he shut out _reality_?

_That can’t be—I—that can’t be what happened—can it?_

_No. Roger’s obviously delusional._

“She betrayed me, Roger,” Will says reflexively. “Don’t tell me she didn’t deserve it. She deserved everything she got.”

Two bright pink spots appear on Roger’s cheeks. He puts down his menu, looks at Will, opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it. He raises his hands as if to say, _Whatever_ , plucks his napkin from his lap and sets it on the table. He gets up and starts putting on his jacket.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Why? You just got here.”

“Because you’re a total fucking moron and I can’t stand to look at you.”

“How can you _say_ —”

Roger throws some money down on the table with more force than is strictly necessary. “How can I say it? I haven’t said shit for thirty years. I don’t know why I haven’t. I should have. I’ve been complicit. But I’ll say it now. I’ve seen you be cruel before, Will. I’ve seen you cut people out of your life, leaving them hurt and bewildered and wondering what the _fuck_ happened. But those people didn’t matter. They weren’t essential to your life or health or happiness. She _is_. The fact that you could do that to _her_ —someone you _adored_. Someone who loved you as much as she did. My God. It’s … unbelievable. Unbelievably _callous_ and _inhumane_. I’m speechless.”

“I wish that was true.”

Will says it reflexively but despite his bravado, a cold feeling of fear settles in his stomach. What Roger is saying is beginning to get through to him in a way the nighttime needling of his conscience hasn’t (what the fuck does his conscience know about anything, anyway?). It’s certainly getting through to him in a way MacKenzie's own words hadn't since he knows damned well she was only trying to deflect the blame. And as he ponders Roger's words, he can feel the lens of self-righteousness through which he’s viewed the past begins to slip from his eyes. But it doesn’t slip completely—not yet, because he’s never been one to admit defeat readily. Far better to try to turn the tables, instead.

“Why are you so pissed? What’s it to you?” Luckily, they’re in the empty celebrities-only portion of the dining room, which means no one is privy to their conversation.

Roger gives him a piercing stare. “Because when you were with her, for the first time in your life, you weren’t a sad sack of shit. You were _happy._ You fucking _glowed_. And it was great to see.” He picks up his doctor’s bag and slings it over his shoulder. “What can I say? Watching you throw your life away pisses me off. Watching you hurt someone who loved you so much pisses me off. But I think you were right to let her go. Because you don’t deserve her.”

Will swallows. Roger has advised him on nearly every important decision he’s ever made: which college to go to, which subject to major in, whether to switch from engineering to law, whether to take the job in Houston or DC, whether to visit his dad in the hospital when he had his heart attack. And he has never steered Will wrong. Ever.

_Could she—did she—did she really—_

“You really think I did this?”

“No doubt about it.”

Striking Will like a bolt of lightning, understanding hits him full force. And with it comes another kind of clarity. A devastating one: _I was the dishonest one—not her._

He slumps back in his chair and looks up at Roger, his face twisted. “You really think she believed I was seeing other people?”

“Are you deaf? _Yes_.”

An uncomfortable feeling of exposure and shame crawls over his scalp and down the back of his neck, as though someone has just poured a bucket of tepid water over his head.

“Fuck.”


	6. Chapter 6

_One month later_

The mailbox just says “McHale” on it now, and the fingernail marks where his name was rubbed off are still visible. Something in Will’s chest tightens when he realizes she must have done it after they’d broken up: his name had remained even after he’d moved to New York ( _“It’s still your home,” she’d told him. “Ours. Whenever you’re in DC.”_ ). Her show ended ten minutes ago so unless she decided to go out—and he dares not think about _that_ —she should be home soon.

He lowers himself to sit on the steps outside the building to wait. Thirty minutes go by, then an hour, and as the minutes tick by, he shifts uncomfortably on the steps, keeping his face turned toward the door. Nosy Parkers keep asking for his autograph, anyway, and he briefly toys with the idea of using the key he still has to her/their apartment to let himself in. He thinks better of it when he imagines her reaction: _“Presumptuous ass,”_ she’d probably say, all too rightly.

Occasionally, he turns his face toward the street, watching the crowd as they make their way to the bars that flank the neighborhood. They’d chosen this place for its proximity to the subway station, the library, and the grocery stores; the bars had been a secondary consideration, though there are plenty of those.

The swelling horns of big band music float down to his ears from a second-floor window which can only mean Mrs. Thornton is doing her evening cleaning. She’d water their plants when they were out of town and sometimes he and MacKenzie would sit on the balcony with Mrs. Thornton and her husband, chatting about politics and work and life. He misses the friends he’d had in this building, people who thought of him as _Will_ instead of _Will McAvoy_ : Mr. Thornton, who’d shown him how to fix their washing machine when it threatened to flood the apartment, and Cathy, the yoga instructor who used to chide Will about his terrible posture when he wasn’t on the air.

He tenses each time the door to the building opens and is both surprised and relieved when it’s never anyone he knows. When he hears a baby cry through an open window he wonders if it belongs to Karen and her new husband. _They’ve been married—what? Two years now? Good for them._ MacKenzie had been one of the bridesmaids at their wedding, and Will had worked the bar. His chest tightens again when he thinks of that long ago evening: Karen may have been the bride, but MacKenzie had been the one Will couldn’t take his eyes off of: her little black cocktail dress had accentuated every one of her perfect curves, and Will had spent the entire evening adjusting himself and counting the minutes until he could take her home.

He misses her. He misses everything about her. Purely, plainly, simply. Before he’d met her, he’d known only the fire of the intellect, but with her, it was of the body, of the blood. He has no idea now how he’d managed to convince himself that loving her was a profanation and his therapist’s explanation—that crappy childhoods produce crappy coping mechanisms (paraphrased, of course)—seems woefully inadequate, which is why he’s getting another therapist as soon as he gets back to New York. He’d obtained the man’s services after deciding he had no business trying to win MacKenzie back until he’d discovered why he’d done what he’d done—and what he could do to ensure he never did it again.

As he sits here now—on the literal threshold of the life they’d made together—he’s filled with apprehension. What if the twelve-point plan he and the good doctor had finalized that very afternoon—the one that will help him sidestep the landmines of his past—isn’t enough to convince her he’s sincere? For the thousandth time, he wonders what the fuck he’d been thinking to throw her out of his life.

Another interminable hour passes. It’s after eleven now and he wonders if she’s at the Archipelago. They—along with the rest of the crew—would end up there most Friday nights. He usually got to the bar later than she did and some nights he’d slip in and park himself in the shadows so he could watch her watch for him. He’d know she was doing it by the way she’d cock her head slightly and look at the door, or the way she’d fiddle with the bracelet he’d given her on their first anniversary. Mostly he’d known it because it was exactly the same for him: no matter where they were or who they were with they were always keenly aware of how long it would be until they could get each other alone. Her companions had no idea she wasn’t really paying attention to them: they’d be peppering her with questions about Monday night’s show or asking for her advice on getting over a broken heart, and because she was beautifully adept at appearing attentive, they never knew she was only half-listening as she waited for Will to make his entrance.

When he'd finally step out of the shadows some sixth sense would alert her to his presence and she’d make a fucking _beeline_ for him, throwing herself into his arms as if it had been months instead of minutes since she’d last seen him. The crew would laugh and Will would get a shit-eating grin on his face because she didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought: Will McAvoy belonged to her and she didn’t give a fuck who knew it.

 _She loved me_ , he thinks now. He’d known it with absolute certainty then. How could he have forgotten it, even for a second? His apprehension grows as the minutes tick by and that’s all it takes for fear to take up residence inside him: _she’s seeing someone. How serious is it? Is she in love with him? How am I going to win her back if she is?_ Then the voice of his therapist is in his head, unwelcome and annoying: _if she’s seeing someone, you still need to apologize. It’s the only way you’ll be able to get closure. ‘Closure,’_ he snorts. The only way he’s going to get closure is if she’s wearing his ring by the end of the night. His life is shit without her, and if he can’t get her back, it always will be.

His heart skitters in anticipation of how what he has to say might be received. One moment he’s buoyed by his knowledge of her forgiving nature and the next he’s downcast at the certainty that his actions were so reprehensible, so cruel as to make forgiveness impossible. The last possibility infects his future with so deadly a blight he quickly puts it out of his mind.

And so, he does the only thing he can do: he continues to wait. Pulls out his speech and practices it some more. He’d worked on it during his thrice-weekly therapy sessions with Dr. Warren, who'd advised him to keep it simple ( _“When the time comes there’s a good chance you won’t remember it anyway.”_ ). Stares at his shoes. Pops a mint into his mouth. Wishes for a glass of scotch. Surfs the Internet on his phone. Practices his speech again. Wonders who she’s out with. Wonders if she’s sleeping with him. Wonders if there’s any chance he’ll be able to win her back. Wonders how he’ll live if he can’t. Wonders how he could have been so stupid. Repeat.

His back is starting to ache so he gets up and makes his way down the steps and turns into the alley next to the building. He peers around the corner to make sure he won’t miss her from his new vantage point and, satisfied, leans his head back against the wall. He’s just about to pop another mint into his mouth when all the hair stands up on the back of his neck. He’d know that laugh anywhere, the helpless laugh of someone who's just heard something so funny they can't help but bubble over with it _._ He turns his head toward the sound and peers down the sidewalk. There she is, stepping out of a Town Car that’s pulled up ten feet down the block. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, dressed in a full-length, emerald-green evening gown and three-inch heels _._

She’s so full of life and vitality—so full of color. Her brown tresses—longer now, much longer than they’d been the last time he’d seen her—fall over her shoulders, contrasting with her white skin, rosy cheeks and heavenly red lips. And though he’s too far away to see them just now, he can’t help but imagine the light dusting of freckles across her collarbone. He’d never imagined freckles could be so enchanting until he’d met her, especially the ones he’d discovered later, in areas usually covered by fabric.

Her face is fuller than it was the last time he’d seen her, her body slightly softer and less angular.

_She’s been eating. Good. She’s not unhappy, then._

As he takes her in, he’s overwhelmed with love and longing and pure joy. She’s his other half, the one person in the world who fits him perfectly. They are tied together, irrevocably: it’s as if there’s an invisible string between them that cannot be broken. Looking at her now, he wonders whether things might have been different if she hadn’t gone home that night. How long could he reasonably have held out against the bond that exists between them? An hour? Five?

Her effect on him is felt throughout his body and it reminds him of the intoxication he has always felt in her presence—the one he’s carried since the moment he met her. _We’re two halves of the same soul_ , he thinks without irony. The half within his own possession—which understands what his reason cannot—wants to rush to claim the half that resides within her, but he can’t risk it—not yet, not until he finds out what—or rather, _whom_ —he’s up against. He wants to burst out of the shadows so he can touch her face and discover whether her skin is as soft as he remembers, to find a resolution for the soft, sweet dreams of her that have tormented him, waking and sleeping, but he can’t, not yet—not just yet. And so, heart pounding, he balls his hands into fists and presses himself against the wall to wait.

A man steps out of the car behind her and Will tries vainly to calm the skip and surge of his blood when MacKenzie leans back into him to hear what he’s saying, pressing her lithe figure comfortably against the man's torso, suggesting an intimacy that makes Will's throat close. Will can only make out the man’s general build (tall, dark, curly hair) from his vantage point, but when the streetlight over their heads finally throws the man's features into relief adrenaline surges through him. Hell, it would surge through him even if he _didn’t_ know who it was, but he does: _Pete Allen_. Fucking _Pete_ , the anchor of the five o’clock. _Goddamn him._ _Of course, it would be Pete. He’s had a crush on her for years._

_But she never liked him, did she?_

_Or was she just saying that?_

_Holy fuck._

_Mac and Pete._

_Mac and Pete._

_Mac and PETE._

Surely, she can’t be serious about him. He’s a nice-enough guy, but come on, she can run circles around him. That gives Will some comfort—or it does until she trips over a crack in the sidewalk and Pete puts an arm around her waist to steady her. _Get your fucking hands off her_ , Will seethes. He seethes even more when he sees Pete pull her against his body. He watches as she glances down, obviously embarrassed. “Thank you,” Will hears her say.

Another burst of adrenaline (actually, it’s closer to rage) surges through him when he sees Pete (fucking _PETE)_ put his finger under MacKenzie’s chin to bring her head up and stare into her eyes. _He’s not going to_ — _oh my God, he is—he IS—don’t let him, Mac, don’t let him!_ But she’s staring into Pete’s eyes, too _,_ and Will watches, paralyzed, as Pete frames her face with his hands. Will can’t see the expression on her face, but she’s sure as fuck not backing away, so she’s going to let him. She’s going to let Pete—PETE, for Christ’s sake—kiss her. _Please, MacKenzie, please. I’m so sorry. Please don’t let it be too late._

It’s a train wreck—a horror show that makes him want to throw up, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away. And when Pete finally presses his lips against hers, it takes every ounce of Will’s strength to not leap out of the shadows and tear Pete limb from limb. It’s a brief kiss, no passion in it, but it’s a _kiss,_ and Will’s eyes fill with tears. _No, no, no. She can’t be with Pete now. She can’t._ He grips the handrail so hard his knuckles turn white. Although he suspects now would be the perfect time to announce his presence, he can’t because he’s lost the power of speech.

They make their way up the sidewalk and Will watches as she fishes her key out of her bag. It's another stab to Will’s heart when he realizes he’d surprised her with that purse after she’d admired it one afternoon during a trip to New York. As he watches her fumble in her bag, he weighs his options. He wants to step out of the shadows but the two-ton weight pressing on his chest stops him.

_She’s with Pete now. She doesn’t want me anymore. Why would she? Who am I kidding?_

The answer comes swiftly and with certainty: himself, of course—in thinking for even a moment that it’s within his power to walk away. He loves her. He wants her. He _needs_ her. And if there is any chance in the world that she will take him back, he _must have her_. Now that he’s come to his senses, how can he turn his back on the woman who is the other part of his soul? How can he live with himself if he does the gentlemanly thing and accepts Pete’s presence in her life? Every day would be as empty as a desert. The sharpness of his desire for her soft comfort, her warm welcome, causes the breath to catch in his chest.

And then the truth hits him: although the thought of returning to his previous existence, of continuing to fight against this longing for her for the rest of his life is insupportable, she’s obviously moved on.

_She deserves to be happy. Even if it’s without me._

And then they’re less than a foot away from him, Pete’s arm slung companionably over her shoulders. Will’s mouth opens but the word “MacKenzie” dies on his lips as—too quickly—they pass him by. Pete mutters something and MacKenzie’s answering laugh makes Will’s chest constrict. He hears her heels clatter up the stairs, hears Pete open the door to the building and the whoosh of the door closing behind them. And then there is silence. Will stands there woodenly for a moment, wondering what the fuck just happened. He slowly steps out of the shadows and walks back to stand in front of the building, tilting his head up, waiting for the overhead lights in their apartment to come on but they don’t.

_Are they going straight to bed?_

The thought fills him with horror.

What is he supposed to _do_?

Does he dare go up there and make a scene?

Assert his rights?

_What rights, you idiot?_

_I’m so sorry, MacKenzie. I’m so sorry._

He tears his gaze from the window and starts to pace.

_I could go up there. I could. Maybe she’s not in love with him. Maybe she still loves me._

_She deserves to be happy_ , his conscience reminds him.

 _She WAS happy_ , his psyche counters. _With_ _me._

_Until you ruined it._

_Yes, but maybe I can fix—_ he’s suddenly struck by the memory of her expression when he told her to leave. She’d been disbelieving. Panicked. Confused. Devastated.

_You broke her heart. You think she’s ever going to forgive you for that?_

He stops pacing.

_No._

He glances down the block. A cab has just pulled up and is expelling its passenger. He should leave. He should let her get on with her life. He should let her be happy. He realizes—too late—that his hand is rising, his fingers are splayed out and his wrist is moving in a jerky wave. The cab driver flashes his lights in acknowledgement, and Will slowly lowers his hand. That’s it, then. The decision’s made. All he has to do is force his feet to carry him to the waiting cab.

That’s exactly what he does.


	7. Chapter 7

_One month later_

The night MacKenzie arrives in New York she watches  _News Night_  from her hotel room. The bar in the hotel is one they used to frequent on the weekends she’d visit from DC. Too many nights to count they’d stumble out onto the sidewalk, laughing and half drunk, their hands tightly clasped. Invariably, MacKenzie would challenge Will to race her back to his apartment and he’d agree because he’d never been able to deny her anything.

She's stunned when she sees him on TV. The proud, magnetic Will is gone, vanished as though he’d never existed. The man onscreen is a thin, hollow shell with haunted eyes and a slightly defeated air. The anchor desk obscures most of his body but she can tell by his angular cheeks that he’s lost at least 20 pounds. _What on Earth has happened to you, Billy? Are you alright?_

The show itself inspires no such tender feelings. ‘ _News Night?’_ she thinks when the credits begin to roll. ‘ _They wish. ‘The Drivel Hour’ would be more appropriate.’_ Still, she’s impressed they managed to secure an interview with President Obama tomorrow night.

She gathers her things and heads downstairs into the humid night air. The streets are nearly empty this late summer evening and despite the heat, she shivers as she presses the bundle she’s carrying against her chest. She uses one hand to wrap her cardigan snugly around her body and the other to adjust the heavy bag on her shoulder. Ordinarily, she’d walk the short distance to Will’s place, but she’s so tired right now it’s out of the question: she’s barely able to stay on her feet. She and a cab arrive outside the hotel entrance simultaneously, so she climbs into the back seat and gives the driver Will’s address. Five minutes later she’s standing in front of Will’s apartment building, flooded with memories and blinking back tears.

She hasn’t been here since the night he proved he never really loved her at all.

The security guard inside the building startles when he sees her. They’d been friendly once upon a time and he used to tease her because she’d show up each weekend with a wrapped gift for Will in hand—little things to make his then-new apartment feel more like the one they’d shared in DC: pictures of the two of them together, warm throws meant to remind him of the evenings they’d spent cuddling on the couch, the twin to a coffee mug that now sits in a box ready for storage.

She tells the guard she’s waiting for Will and feels his uneasy stare on the side of her face when she sits down in a wingback chair near the fireplace. She wishes she could reassure the man there’s nothing to worry about—she’ll just deliver her news and go—but she’s so tired she’s not going to be able to get up again without a bloody good incentive.

The lobby is cozy and warm—a welcome respite from her own freezing internal body temperature. She’s had the chills all day and though she predicts she’ll have to shrug off her cardigan any second, she’ll enjoy the warmth for as long as her feverish body will allow. As the minutes tick by, she adjusts the bundle against her chest and finds herself being lulled to sleep by the steady ticking of the clock above the elevator. Her head tilts toward the back of the chair of its own accord.  _I’ll just close my eyes for a minut_ e. _While_ _I have the chance._  She drops into a fitful sleep even as she remains on high alert, jerking awake every time the door to the building opens.

Thirty minutes later the door opens again and all the air leaves her lungs when she sees the man responsible for waking her from her slumber. The sight of Will is an electric shock to her system, and she can hardly breathe, so overwhelmed is she with love and fear and longing and pain in equal measure. She’s missed him so badly (well, the man she thought he was).  _How could I have been such a poor judge of character?_

Although her mind now knows Will’s affection for her wasn’t real, it seems her body didn’t get the message: seeing him in the flesh feels like relocating the missing half of her soul. All she can do is remind herself of the brutal truth:  _you never loved me_. _Not really._ She forces herself to focus on that thought because she suspects it’s the only thing that will get her through the next few minutes.

She’s imagined this moment countless times over the last several months but now that it’s here, every rehearsed line, every practiced jab meant to put him in his place has disappeared into the ether. All that’s left is blankness. She watches Will say hello to the security guard on his way to the elevator, watches him stop when the guard appends something more to his greeting, watches his eyes follow the motion of the man’s raised hand. When Will’s gaze locks onto hers for the first time in ten months, they’re both paralyzed—he by shock and she by the connection that pulses between them.

_Even now. Even now._

She was wrong to think he’d lost his magnetism. He hasn’t. Not in the least. Despite his shockingly slender frame he’s still as charismatic, electric and pulsing with life as ever and everybody within thirty feet of him knows it. Until he’d met her that magnetism had always been one-directional but it’s as if she’s got her own magnet buried in her sternum—the only one of its kind in the universe—and he’s got the corresponding alloy in his. Even now the attraction between them is so strong it’s a wonder either one of them can find the strength to prevent themselves from succumbing to it on the spot.

 _It’s not a mirage_ , _this apparition struggling to her feet_ , he thinks. _It’s her._ The woman who ripped his heart out and fed it to him for breakfast nearly a year ago. Will’s heart swells when he sees her. He’s dreamt for so long of this moment he’s sure he must be sleeping. She’s a beautiful, gauzy illusion and all he can do is stand stock still, stunned. He’s flooded with adrenaline, endorphins and a sensation of pure joy which quickly morph into shock and grief and anger when he glances down and notices the small bundle she’s clutching to her chest.

One that looks suspiciously  _baby-_ shaped.

 _Oh,_ _my God. She had Pete’s baby._  The shock is a wave that pulls him under, and he finds himself blinking back hot tears.  _This really puts a fucking end to things, doesn’t it?_  And then he’s nothing but enraged. _Did you come here to rub my nose in it?_

Will feels the battered, bruised contraption that might have once been his heart pound so violently against his ribs that it hurts. This is the woman who should have been the mother of _his_ children. This is the woman he loved—still loves—and longs for every moment he draws breath.

As he walks toward her, he tries unsuccessfully to school his expression into something that conceals the anger and pain but the full reality of his unhappiness crashes over her as though she’s standing before a speeding car. The anguish in Will’s eyes is so heavy—so tangible—that she raises her hand to her mouth. She drops it when his feet finally carry him to her, his eyes asking the question she’d be powerless to answer, anyway, since his proximity has rendered her incapable of speech.

“Let’s go upstairs,” he says evenly, a thousand times more calmly than he feels and the sound of his voice through something other than a cheap pair of computer speakers makes MacKenzie’s heart start hammering even harder. She nods and bends to pick up her bag, but he gets there first, hoisting it over his shoulder.

When he takes her elbow and leads her to the elevator she’s overwhelmed by a wholly different kind of tremor and she fights the urge to lean into him ( _I’ve missed you so much_ , she thinks stupidly) even as he fights the urge to pull her close _(Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. How can this be happening?)._

The magnetic pull she emits is urging him to draw her into his body but he feels no such urge to look into her eyes. Indeed, he can’t look at her or her baby because if he does he’s absolutely going to lose it. The iron will he’d employed so effectively those first few months to clamp down every incipient thought of her isn’t working: not now when she’s here in the flesh, not now when she’s less than six inches away from him. The realization that she’s moved on without him irrevocably—even though it was his choice to cut her loose, even though he’s known for a month now that she and Pete are together—is very nearly more than he can bear. The knowledge that she had Pete's baby means his heart is broken in a way that will never be healed, in a way that feels like it’s going to kill him. Every breath he takes is like inhaling broken glass.

Suddenly he can’t breathe and every self-protective instinct inside him is telling him to get as far away from her as possible. He can feel it happening again, can feel the ten-year-old pushing him to shut the pain down, to clamp it  _off_ , but he fights it, wills himself to insert the wedge of higher thought between the urge and the action, wills himself to  _not_ shut it down, to _not_  cut it off, to  _not_ stanch the bleeding. He has a choice to make. It doesn’t feel like there’s actually room between the impulse and the action to choose to do anything but he knows there is. He can choose to be the kind of man he was the last time she saw him or the kind which could have been worthy of her love.

Even if he’ll never have it again.

So, he lets himself feel the pain and it’s worse than anything he could ever imagine, worse than anything he has ever endured. He feels like he is going to _die_. He can hardly breathe with the strength of it. He feels sure that pain of this intensity cannot be sustained and that any second he will pass out but he doesn’t. The pain inside him grows more desperate every second and as waves of undiluted agony keep threatening to pull him under, a sob threatens to break out of his throat. It’s only years of conditioning that allow him to maintain a facade of normalcy.

The elevator ride up to his penthouse is taken in silence. And because she’s still the strongest magnet in the world, she keeps pulling him toward her with stunning ferocity—only now there’s a concrete wall in front of her and he keeps getting slammed into it. The car reaches his floor and they step into his penthouse, and then it’s her turn to want to cry: all traces of her have been removed. The plants she’d put on every windowsill (the ones he’d grudgingly watered), the comfortable throws she’d placed on the couch—all gone. As are the pictures of the two of them that used to festoon every surface: snapshots of them producing their show in DC, lounging in bed with flushed cheeks, or the ones in which they’d exchanged adoring looks near every touristy landmark she’d ever dragged him to. Snapshots capturing three-and-a-half years of beautiful, perfect happiness—the kind that neither one imagined could really exist. Standing here now, she feels like a stranger in a once achingly familiar land: all the corners she once inhabited have been papered over.

She swallows as she steps into the apartment and forces herself to mentally change the channel; she has to focus on the future instead of the past. And so, using every bit of her flagging strength, she turns to face the man who used to own her whole heart: every sinew, every hidden muscle in it.

 _Goddamn you,_ she thinks. _Goddamn everything about you._ She should hate him for what he did to her (and she does, mostly) but all her traitorous body cares about is that he’s two feet in front of her, so close she could reach out and grab him if she wanted to. Which she does. Desperately. Her hands clench into fists as she tries to steel herself against the emotions radiating off him and the ones emanating from her own traitorous heart. _Where’s my self-respect?_

The connection that pulses between them ( _real or imagined_?), makes it very hard to think, very hard for his mouth to form words, but he wills himself to say something, _anything_. Unfortunately, all that comes out is the obvious: “You have a baby.”

She nods, and his eyes dart from her face to the floor because he feels sick to his stomach and can’t look at her for more than a few seconds. “You have a baby,” he repeats to himself, staring down at his shoes as if he’s trying to convince himself this is not just some horrible nightmare from which he will awaken.

“Fuck. I mean—congratulations,” he says quickly, still unable to look at her. And then he’s assaulted by the voice of his therapist: _it doesn’t matter if it’s too late. You have to tell her. You have to. You owe her that._

So, he forces himself to speak the words he went to DC to say (although his therapist was right: he can’t really remember): “I’m glad you came. Because there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you.” When his eyes finally swing up to hers, she’s startled to see they’re brimming with tears. “I’m so sorry, Mac. For what happened between us. It was all my fault, and I’m so sorry.” He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “I wish you nothing but the best. You deserve everything that’s good in the world. I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you. Not that it matters now. But I hope you’re happy. With the baby. And with … Pete.”

_You know about Pete?_

“Billy—” Fuck. Even she doesn’t know why she called him that. Out of habit? Longing? What?

“Please—don’t,” he tells her. Not _Billy_. Not the diminutive he’s heard her cry out hundreds of times over the past ten months when he dreamt of making love to her, her face flushed and beautiful and her eyes full of love for _him_.

And then he starts to fucking _sob_. Right there in his living room. He doesn’t know exactly why he’s sobbing, why he’s chosen this moment to completely humiliate himself in front of her but he thinks maybe it has something to do with the idiotic words that are running on an endless loop through his mind ( _I’m so sorry, I love you so much, I need you so much, you are my one true love, my love for all time, and it’s too late, it’s too late, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ ). He can’t stop thinking it, and he can’t stop the pain, which means he’s helpless to stop the tears from falling.

She’s stunned. She’s only seen Will cry once, and that was two years ago when his beloved Uncle Henry had died. He’d been the role model Will’s own father had never been, and he’d been devastated when he lost him. But that’s nothing compared to the wholesale dissolution she’s witnessing now. And for reasons unknown to her—except perhaps that she feels his pain as if it was her own—she’s compelled to comfort him.

“Will.” She takes a step toward him.

But he holds out his hand to stop her. “Please—don’t—I can’t—”

“What?”

Despite his vow to not shut it down, to not shut her out, the urge to flee is getting is getting stronger. He won’t cast her out emotionally, he won’t say anything mean or cutting, but just how much is he reasonably expected to take? He knows it’s his fault, that every single bit of it is his goddamned fault, but isn’t it enough to know she’s moved on without him?  

“Take it. It’s too much. I’m sorry. I can’t stay here. You’ll see yourself out?” Without waiting for an answer, he turns around and bolts for the elevator. He’s pressing the button when her voice stops him. 

“Too much for _you_?” she snorts, her anger back. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Will. After what you put me through.”

As the elevator doors open behind him, he wipes his eyes and turns to stare at her, amazed at the woman’s gall.

 _Who the hell do you think you're kidding?_  he thinks, furious all over again. _You got what you wanted: a life with someone else._

“You replaced me pretty quick, Ms. McHale. Or is it Mrs. _Allen_ now?” he says, his voice laced with anger.

She looks at him blankly for a moment until she processes what he’s saying. And then she’s gripped by a cold, dispassionate rage.

_Fuck you, Will._

_Fuck you._

“It’s McHale,” she bites out.

The elevator doors close behind him. and he glances down at her left hand, relieved to discover she’s not wearing a wedding ring.

“Really? Doesn’t your religion frown on—” _having children out of wedlock?_

He clamps his mouth shut.

 _Goddammit, knock it off_ , he tells himself. _It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter,_ the part of his psyche that wants him to lash out urges him. _There’s no point in being civil, no point in NOT being an asshole: if you can ensure she hates you—irrevocably, finally, without reservation—at least you’ll never have to face her again._ _Fuck off,_ he tells himself. _I won’t do it._

But it turns out he didn’t need to finish that sentence because she already knows exactly what he was going to say.

She stares at him, a look of absolute contempt on her face.

“Henry’s father wants nothing to do with me and I’m hoping the good Lord will take that into consideration when I arrive at the pearly gates.”

“Pete abandoned you?” he says, startled.

She huffs in derision. “Not him.”

Well, _that_ shocks him. “I didn’t realize there was more than one—” _rival for your affection_. _Fuck._ He hates himself for even starting to say it, hates himself, even more, when he sees the wounded look on her face, but he can’t seem to stop slashing and burning his way through this encounter. And then she levels a look at him that is so cold and contemptuous he wants to take a step back.

“As charming as ever, I see,” she tells him. “There were no rivals for my affection, Will. Every bit of it belonged to you—though that seems ludicrous now, given how monstrously you behaved when you ended it and how monstrously you’re behaving right now. No _._ As much as I may wish otherwise, there’s only one man who could possibly be Henry’s father, and that’s _you_.”

Will looks at her, astonished, and his heart starts thudding even more wildly in his chest.

“What?” he says blankly.

“He’s two months old. Who the fuck else’s would he be?” Will doesn’t answer—just stands there, staring at her, an astonished expression on his face.

She takes another step toward him, and he forces himself not to take another step back. “You’d have known a lot sooner if you hadn’t changed your phone numbers or email addresses or if you’d read any of the dozens of letters I sent saying “’I’m pregnant’” or “’You have a son’.”

When she’d discovered she was pregnant she’d called him at home and at work only to realize he’d changed his phone numbers. She’d sent an email, which bounced back. She’d sent letter after letter, each of which went unanswered.

She’d been so humiliated by her complete erasure from his life she hadn’t dared ask any of their mutual friends to break the news. She’d even gone so far as to swear them to secrecy (“Will and I aren’t on speaking terms at the moment, and I don’t want to give him an excuse to contact me.”). This was news she wanted to deliver herself. She’d considered ambushing him in person at work or in his lobby, but she simply didn’t have the strength to face him: it had been a hard pregnancy, and she’d been ill most of the time. She’d thought of calling Charlie and asking him to break the news, but she hadn’t because she’d known—instinctively—that he’d disapprove of Will, and her protective instincts wouldn’t allow her to portray Will in an unflattering light—no matter how well-deserved it might be. There were other ways she could have gotten in touch with him but as time passed and overture after overture went ignored she began to feel he didn’t deserve to know.

The only reason she’s here now is that it frightens her to know she’s this baby’s sole support. Of course, her family loves her, and they love the baby, but her parents are older, and her siblings have their own children to worry about. She needs to know there’s someone in the world who will make this child’s future their number one priority and despite Will’s appalling behavior towards her, she feels sure he’ll be a good, loving and devoted father.

Will just stares at her, dumbstruck. He can’t think. He can’t breathe. He can barely stay on his feet.  _He’s MINE? Oh, my God._ He’s incapable of cataloging his emotions: they’re running from ecstasy to fear to hope and back to ecstasy again without rhyme or reason, and he hopes to God that somehow, somehow, the past will no longer matter to her quite so much now that there’s another little human to consider.

She can see the gears turning in his head. Ordinarily, the expression on his face—wide-eyed and slack-jawed—would make her want to laugh, but that’s the last thing she feels like doing because she can barely stay on her feet. She feels like absolute shit. And not just because she’s breathing the same air as the man who cast her out, the man who just now could barely resist twisting the knife one more time. He watches her wipe a shaky hand across her forehead and that small gesture, the one that seems to reveal fatigue and sadness and loneliness and fear, makes him so ashamed he can barely look her in the eye. He forces himself to do so, however, because he did this, it’s all his fault, and he deserves everything he gets.

He takes a tentative step toward her. There she is, the woman he loves more than anything in the world, standing there, holding  _their_  child. It’s a miracle. It’s a goddamned miracle.

“Are you alright? Is he alright?”

“We’re fine.” She stands there woodenly, waiting to see what he’s going to do next. He keeps moving, and then he’s six inches away from her.

One look at her face stops him in his tracks, and at that moment he knows he has a hill the size of Mount Everest to climb, and that any other overtures of a personal nature will go over like a lead balloon. He stares down at the baby and tries to pick a safer topic. 

"Can I hold him?"

Her mind is a jumble of fleeting, contradictory thoughts. _I’ve missed you so much, I love you, how could you do this to me? I need you, I hate you._

“No.”

"Why not?"

"Because I said so." 

He won't fight her on it. Yet. "Okay," he says, willing himself to stick to subjects unlikely to rouse her ire. “What do you need? What can I do?”

“Nothing. I don’t want fuck all from you, Will. I just wanted you to know he exists.”

He swallows hard, trying to figure out the best way to approach this. “Okay. We can discuss the ‘fuck all’ part later.” He can’t take his eyes off the baby’s face. “Henry. You said his name is Henry. After—” he says softly, forcing himself to tear his gaze away and stare into her eyes.

“Your uncle, yes.”

“Thank you—”

“Don’t.” She doesn’t want to hear his bullshit.

She’s looking at him with such disdain it makes something deep inside him ache and throb like a broken tooth.

“Okay.” He swallows hard again. “What’s the rest of it? His name?”

“William McAvoy. _Henry_ William McAvoy.” She says the words curtly, disdainfully, as if civility is barely within reach.

He exhales with relief. She doesn’t intend to cut him out of Henry’s life.

“The William is sweet,” he says lamely. “Unexpected, under the circumstances. But … sweet. Thank you. And the McAvoy. That means a lot—”

“I don’t care.”

He nods, exhaling softly. “Alright. Alright.” He stops, unsure of how to proceed. Maybe he should just stick to the facts. “When was he born?”

“June eleventh.”

“Oh. You were—”

“Four weeks along when you threw me out, yes.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m so sorry you went through it alone.”

“Do me a favor and spare me the false contrition, Will. We’re long past it, you and I.”

His lips clamp shut in frustration. “I _am_ sorry, Mac. I made the worst mistake of my life and you paid for it. I wish I could take it back, but I can’t.”

“No. You can’t. So, save it.” His eyes grow moist at the unprecedented harshness, only to be met with worse: “You may as well not waste your time and mine. I’m not so easily deceived these days.”

“I’m not trying to deceive you. I’m trying to tell you how sorry I am for what happened. I _love_ —”

She cuts him off with a harsh laugh. “What a fool you must think me to imagine I’d be taken in again.”

“I don’t think—I’m not—”

Her hand cuts through the air in a gesture of fierce determination. “Enough!” she hisses.

Will blinks at the harshness of the word. The constricting sensation in his chest and throat increases every second until it’s difficult for him to draw even a ragged breath. Other emotions follow close behind—disbelief, shame, and then embarrassment. He tries to unearth the reserve that has served him for so long but finds he can’t resurrect the mask of indifference he’d willingly given up the moment he fell in love with her.

He feels as if he’s stepped off the edge of a precipice with no idea of what’s below. He’s never seen her in such a cold rage. And though he wouldn’t have been surprised to see icicles forming around her he refuses to be intimidated. He knows what they have, even if she’s forgotten. He’s seized by a lunatic urge to grab her by the shoulders and beg her to marry him. In fact, he wants to kiss her so much he has to bite his tongue to prevent his body from acting upon his desire without conscious command.

Instead, he forces himself to focus his attempts at speech on the generic and—hopefully—unobjectionable. “How have you been? Was it a hard birth? Who was with you?”

“Fine, yes and no one.”

He can’t hide his shock and dismay. “No one? What about your family?”

“I didn’t tell them until after.”

“Why?” he says, disbelieving. “Why would you go through it alone?”

“I didn’t have a choice, Will. You made sure of that.”

Indignant fury bubbles up in his chest and out of his mouth. “Christ, Mac, I didn’t _know_. I would have come. You _know_ that. If you’d really wanted to get through to me, you could have. You could have called my sisters; you could have asked people in DC. They’d have gotten in touch with me. Why didn’t you?”

“Because I was _humiliated_!” she erupts. “You think I wanted everyone to know you wouldn’t even take my _calls_?”

 _Fuck_. “I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop _saying_ that!” she cries. “I don’t want to hear it!” The words come out loudly and venomously, startling the baby and making him cry. “Oh, honey, Mummy didn’t mean to scare you. Shhh, shhh,” she soothes in a singsong voice even as her eyes swing up to Will’s.

“MacKenzie—” Will says, then stops, trying to figure out what the hell to _say_. “MacKenzie—” he says again, inching toward her even as she backs away from him but suddenly, a wave of dizziness washes over her and her hand darts out to grab the pillar next to her for support. She wobbles, and Will instinctively reaches out his hand to steady her.

He keeps his tone even and measured, not wanting to spook her further. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” she sighs, rubbing the back of her hand tiredly across her forehead. “It was a hard pregnancy and I haven’t been well since he was born. That’s why I didn’t come sooner.”

“What's wrong?"

"I'm nauseous. All the time. Dizzy, too, sometimes. It's like that for some people. Something to do with hormones. I should be back to normal by Christmas."

"I'm—” _sorry. Nope._ “What can I do?"

"Nothing. I'll be fine when it passes.

He tries again. "Are you here alone?”

“Yes.”

_Where the fuck is Pete? What kind of boyfriend is he?!_

“You’re sick, and you’re here alone.”

“I’m fine. I’m not your problem.”

“MacKenzie—I'm sorry for the way I acted then—and the way I acted just now—I'm an asshole, and I'm sorry. But you’re making a mistake if you think I’m trying to—”

She turns on him, then, the chance to finally, finally offer a rebuttal to his self-serving accusations of nearly a year ago good to pass up.

“No, Will. The only mistake I ever made was believing you actually _loved_ me.”

“I did—I  _do_ —”

But she doesn’t hear him, too intent on giving voice to the pain of the last ten months.  _Oh no, you don’t, you heartless bastard._  She takes a step toward him and instinctively he backs up because she looks like she’d like nothing more than to hit him.

“If you’d been honest about your feelings to begin with, I’d have known how much you liked me. But you didn’t want to scare me off, so you pretended to  _date other people,_ for Christ’s sake. How was I supposed to know you were _lying_?”

“MacKenzie, please—"

But she’s on a roll now, so intent on expelling the pain that she completely misses his intent. The words spill from her without prior composition. “And if you really loved me as much as you said you did, if I was truly ‘the love of your life’ or ‘the only woman you had ever loved,’” she says, her voice cracking in spite of her determination to get through this with dignity intact, “… or any of the other apparently meaningless bullshit you spewed during our time together, you wouldn’t have thrown me out like I was a piece of trash. Like I meant nothing to you. You wouldn’t take my calls, you wouldn’t take my _anything_. I simply ceased. to.  _exist,_ ” she says, tears filling her eyes at just how much that fucking hurt. “You’re the liar, Will. You’re the deceitful one. Not me. And you can go to hell.”

As she speaks, malice blended with agony appears on her face. Stunned, he takes another step back. The MacKenzie he’d known may have felt these things but she would never have said them and the look she’s giving him—full of unbridled contempt and absolute hatred—hurts almost as much as the thought that she had someone else's baby. _This is a fucking horror show_.He’s filled with a shame so black he could shine his shoes with it.

He stares at her, his eyes bright. “I’m sorry, Kenz. I’m so sorry. You’re right. It was all my fault. But I didn’t do it because I didn’t love you. I did it because I was trying to protect myself.”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t give a flying fuck why you did what you did. The only thing that matters is that you did it.”

He gives her a piercing stare. “Then you’re no better than me.”

“What?”

“You refuse to try to understand why I did what I did, but that’s exactly what you wanted me to do when you told me what you did with your ex.”

“Oh, fuck you, Will. What I did isn't even remotely in the same universe as what you did.”

He’s not going to try to argue with her. “MacKenzie—what can I—" She shakes her head in warning, and the words die on his lips.

She swallows down the next wave of nausea as the baby starts to fuss again. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” she says, switching to the singsong voice again. A fine sheen of sweat has appeared on her forehead, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand. “Let’s get you fed and changed and into bed,” she says, turning away from Will.

She’s about to walk away from him and he can’t let that happen so he puts his hand gently on her arm to get her attention and she recoils as if he burned her. “Stay the  _fuck_  away from me, Will,” she hisses. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

“I’m sorry,” he says lamely, stupidly, weakly. Uncontrollably. And then he says it again. “I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. Because that’s who you really are. I’m just lucky you revealed your true self to me before it was too late.”

“Jesus, that’s _not_ who I am! Yes, it’s part of me—a stunted, juvenile part of me—but it’s not all I am, and I swear you’ll never see that side of me again.”

“You’re right. Because you’re never going to get the chance to show it to me.”

He tries again. “Listen. Please. I’ve been out of my mind for the better part of a year, but I’m back now. I swear it. And I will never hurt you like that again.” He speaks the words urgently, desperately, but all she feels is blind anger and the urge to hurt him as badly as he hurt her.

“Go to hell,” she says flatly.

He exhales softly, defeated. His mouth opens and closes ineffectually as he tries to work out what to say, how to get through to her.

“I know I hurt you,” he says slowly. “But we can have everything we had before.” (Pete can go fuck himself.) He looks at her pleadingly. “If you’ll just give me a chance to—”

“No. I can’t trust you.”

_Which means you want to._

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to speak evenly. “What if you’re wrong? What if you can?”

“I’m not.”

“You _are_ ,” he says in frustration. “We were happy together. And we can be again. Everything we had is still here,” he says, taking a step toward her. “You know it is. I can feel it. And, so can you.”

“Your ego knows no bounds.”

Her words are taunting but the fight continues to rage in her breast. She feels it, alright. His presence seems to fill the room. She stares at him, studying the eyes of the man she loved. She’s spent the last ten months trying to deny everything she feels for him in an attempt to survive, but now he’s right here, standing in front her, looking at her desperately, and the ninety percent of her that wants him more than she wants revenge is threatening to overtake her. Her eyes trace the firm line of his jaw then travel upward to note the soft look of earnest desire emanating from his eyes as they flit from hers to the baby and back again. And then indignant fury washes over her. _Who the hell do you think you are? You destroyed my life and now you expect me to let you off scot-free? Fuck you._

“The only thing I feel for you is contempt. I will never forgive you for what you did to me, Will. _Never_.”

The rage is radiating off her and he has nothing in his arsenal with which to combat it. “Okay,” he says softly, blinking down at her. “Okay. I know you’re pissed at me, and you have every right to be, but—”

She stares at him, and the look of unbridled contempt on her face shakes him to his core. He forces himself to hold her gaze even though everything inside him is urging him to look away.

“I’m not just pissed at you, Will. I am _enraged_. Because you are a cruel. lying. _heartless._ bastard who made me believe you loved me as much as I loved you.”

“I _did_ love you. I _do_ love you!” he exclaims, the horror now transmitted to his vehement protest.

The heated antagonism in her stare turns into dark ice again as she implacably grinds out word after damning word with precise and savage clarity. Every word hits him like a stone.

“You _lie_ ,” she hisses. “Oh, you sure acted like it. You told me you loved me a dozen times a day. That you couldn’t live without me, that I was the other half of your fucking _soul_. And you know something, Will? I felt exactly the same way about you! I never wanted to leave your side. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, have your children, and grow old with you. I would have done anything for you! _Anything!_ And I did! And you know how much that meant to you? My devotion? You called me a whore and ordered me to leave. Over something _YOU_ did! And when I tried to contact you—dozens of times—to tell you I was pregnant with our child, you ignored me. So, don’t act like this is some trivial misunderstanding you can cajole your way out of. You destroyed us, and you nearly destroyed me. And I’m not going to let you do it again.”

He averts his gaze and takes a shaky step back but rallies when he thinks of Henry. Even if he’s lost her forever they still have a baby together, and he can’t be a silent or disinterested partner.

He tries again. “I get it, Mac. I do. But no matter how you feel about me, we still have a child together. You can’t shut me out of his life.”

“I don’t intend to.”

“I’m … glad. Thank you. But … I don’t just want to be a weekend father to him. I want to be there for him every day.”

He doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying. How the hell is he supposed to see him every day if she’s in DC? Could he get his old job back? What about Fred? Would she even agree to work with him again? Suddenly, his mind seizes on an idea: _she can come here. She can be my EP. Charlie still wants her. That’s what we’ll do. It will give me time to—_

“Well, I hope you like living in London, then.”

His eyes jerk up. “What?”

“I’ve accepted a job there. We leave next month.”

His jaw drops. “No. _No._ You are not raising our child in another country.”

“It’s done.”

All attempts at civility evaporate. “The hell it is. I’ll take you to court.”

“Your name’s not on the birth certificate, Will, so no judge in this country’s going to let you take him away from me.” She steps closer to him. “And if you try, I will do everything within my power to destroy you. And I will _win_.” Her lips, once so soft and pliable against his own, curl into an ugly, contemptuous sneer.

Once again, he finds himself blinking back tears. How the hell did they get here? He looks at her pleadingly, all anger gone. “Please, Mac. Don’t do this. He needs both of us. You _and_ me.”

“I needed you, too. But it didn’t do me any good, did it?” The pain rushes out of her mouth like a river and although she hates herself for sounding so vindictive, so _shrew-like_ , so unlike everything she has ever been, she can’t help it. Because if she doesn’t try to spread her poison onto him, she’ll choke on it.

He stares at her, his eyes wary and stunned and at the same time full of compassion. “Don’t make him pay for what I did. Make me suffer all you want but don’t do it to him.”

She looks at him, outraged all over again. “That’s the thing, Will. _You_ haven’t suffered. You decided to kick me out and then _you_ decided to change your mind when _you_ were ready. You haven’t suffered one bit. I _have_.”

“That isn’t true, but don’t take it out on him.”

“I’m not. He’ll have grandparents and cousins and aunts and uncles in London. He’ll be part of a family.”

“You think that’ll make up for not having a father?”

“He has a father. You can see him whenever you like. You can call him or Skype with him when he’s older.”

“That won’t be the same as seeing me every day, and you know it.”

“So … what? I’m just supposed to rise above it, to forget what you did to me?”

“It’s a separate discussion. My relationship with him has nothing to do with my relationship with you.”

“You’re wrong. They’re inextricably linked.”

“We’re talking about my relationship with Henry right now. I want to have one. A good one. A strong one. But how am I going to have that if you raise him in another country? You won’t even let me hold him, for Christ’s sake,” he says in frustration.

“Because I loathe you,” she says coldly. She reaches into her pocket, takes out a business card and hands it to him. “This is the name of my attorney. We’ll work out custody arrangements through her. So long as our own paths don’t cross, you can come to see Henry whenever you like. A private mediator will do the handoff. When Henry gets older, he can come to you.” She looks at him steadily. “As of this moment, all direct communication between us will cease. If you have anything to say to me, say it to my lawyer. She’ll relay the message.”

“Why would I speak to her when I can speak to you?”

Antagonism curls her lips into an unrecognizable caricature of the beautiful smile that haunts his dreams. “Because I never want to see or speak to you again.”

She turns away from him and starts making her way to the elevator.

 


	8. Chapter 8

_You_ _want to disappear with our baby? No way, Mac. No fucking way. No matter what I feel for you, that is not going to happen._

“MacKenzie—” he says, following her into the elevator. The doors close behind them, and then they are on their way down. “You are not kidnapping our child.”

“Your name’s not on the birth certificate, Will, so this hardly rises to the level of kidnapping.”

“Did you omit it on purpose?”

“What do you think?”

Will snorts, amazed at what this has come to.

“What about his last name?”

“That could be  _any_  McAvoy.”

“MacKenzie, I’m warning you. Don’t try to take him away from me, or you’ll regret it.”

“I don’t owe you a goddamned thing, Will. I came here as a courtesy. So you can take your threats and your meaningless apologies and shove them up your ass.”

He presses his lips into a thin line and just stares at her, appalled at the state of their disunion. He’s completely at a loss. “I don’t want it to be this way.”

“What you want has no bearing on this discussion. I came here tonight because Henry deserves to know his father. You deserve nothing but contempt. And you’ve got it. In spades. Don’t try to contact me directly or I’ll get a restraining order.”

_You can’t mean that._

Then the doors to the elevator are opening and she’s heading for the building’s exit, past the security guard who’s looking at them in wonder. Will races to block her exit and plants himself in front of her before she can leave the building.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says. Again. And he is. He absolutely is. He fucked up the best thing that ever happened to him all because he was high on self-righteousness and pain. “Please don’t leave. Please.”

The air crackles with excitement as the people in the lobby take note of one of the actors in this play. “You’re drawing attention to yourself, Will. Surely you don’t want this kind of publicity on the eve of your interview with the president.”

He can feel people’s eyes boring into him but he keeps his own trained on her. “I don’t care about that. Please don’t leave. We need to talk.”

“It’s too late.”

“It can’t be too late. I love you.”

“If that was true, you would never have done what you did.”

“I was trying to protect myself. I thought I was doing the right thing. I made the biggest mistake of my life and I will do anything to make it right. _Anything._ ”

“It’s too late,” she repeats.

“It’s not too late,” he says, heedless of the people staring at him. Mercifully, all of them appear to be over the age of forty so none of them have whipped out their cell phones. Yet. “It can’t be. Please. Come back upstairs. We can talk. Or you can rest while I take care of the baby. You don’t look well.” Impulsively, he reaches out a hand to her forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up. Let me help you.”

She fights the urge to lean into him. She’s so tired and run down, and the slightest thing makes her want to burst into tears. “I think I have the flu. Simon came to see us last week, and he had it.” The symptoms only appeared a few hours ago; was it only this morning she’d been congratulating herself and the baby on not contracting her brother’s parting gift? “I’ll be fine,” she tells Will, dismissing him. “Nothing a bit of rest won’t cure.”

“Which you won’t get with a baby to take care of.”

She turns on him. How dare he try to insinuate that she’s not up to the task when he’s been ignoring every attempt at contact? “We’re  _fine_ , Will,” she says angrily. “I’ve been doing this on my own for the last two months. I guess I can keep doing it.”

“You’re not well. You need help. Let me help you. Or, if you can’t stand to be near me, let me hire someone to help you. But I would really like it to be me.”

“Why?”

“Because I _love_ you. And I’m his father.”

He’s throwing her a lifeline but she can’t trust him. As much as she wishes otherwise, she’ll never be able to trust him again.

“I can’t trust you, Will.”

“You can. I won’t let you down. I’ll never let you down again.” He looks at her with concern. Her face is pale, and her eyes are glass marbles staring back at him. She’s a train wreck. “I think you should see a doctor. What if Henry gets sick, too? I can call Roger. He makes house calls.”

“No. I don’t need your help. And I don’t want it.”

“Please. Let me take care of you. Let me take care of him. I love you. Please.”

MacKenzie’s breath catches. He’s so vulnerable at this moment the biggest part of her longs to heal the breach between them but she can’t. She can’t absolve him of the pain he caused her. To do so would be to give him permission to do it all over again. She steadies herself by looking at the tiny version of him in her arms and when she looks up again, she plasters a mask of indifference on her face.

“You should go to bed. You’ve got that interview tomorrow and you need your sleep.”

“Do you think I’m going to be able to sleep knowing I let you walk out of my life again? That I have a baby, and I haven’t even _held_ him?” he hisses. “No. There is nothing more important than you or him or fixing this.”

“It can’t be fixed.”

“We’re not dead yet, so yes, it can be fixed. If you’ll just give me a chance. I love you. I never stopped and I will never stop.”

Her face crumples. “Please go back upstairs, Will, please. It hurts too much. I loved you so much, and you broke my heart into a million pieces and I can never trust you again. Never.”

“You can. I swear to God, honey, you can. Let me take care of you. Let me take care of him. I love you. Please let me help you.”

“It’s over, Will. Leave me alone.”

A swarthy man about Will’s age walks over and looks from MacKenzie to Will. “I just heard the lady ask you to leave her alone.”

“It’s none of your business,” Will tells him.

“I make it my business when I see a woman being harassed by a man she wants nothing to do with.”

“It’s alright,” MacKenzie says to the man. “Thank you for your help, but he’s not bothering me. Not in that way. Goodbye, Will.”

She pushes past him, and when Will tries to follow the man puts his hands on his shoulders, restraining him.

“Goddammit, let go of me!” He struggles against the man as he watches MacKenzie hail a cab.

“MacKenzie!” he calls out, drawing the stares of passersby as a cab pulls up. “Where are you going? Where can I find you? Please don’t leave! Please!”

She stares straight ahead as she climbs into the car and it drives off, leaving Will standing there, tears streaming down his face.

_What have I done?_

Trembling and aghast, Will wrenches himself from the man’s grasp and sprints to the elevator. When it reaches his floor, he rushes to his computer, looks up the number for the cab company and dials. Thank heavens for his near-photographic memory.

“I just got out of cab 84888," he tells the dispatcher on the line. "I think I dropped a ring in there. A woman got in after me—can you tell me where he’s taking her? I’ll meet him there.”

“I’ll call him to see if he can find it,” the dispatcher tells him.

“I don’t have time for that—I need it now—just tell me where he’s dropping her off, and I’ll meet him.”

Will taps his foot impatiently as the guy on the other end of the line ignores him, insisting on asking the cabbie to run his own check.

Two minutes later, the man is back on the line. “His passenger looked and couldn’t find anything.”

“I think I may have dropped it between the seat and the door. It’s my wedding ring, and it’s very important that I get it back tonight— _if you know what I mean_. Tell me where he is, and I’ll meet him.”

“He’s just pulling into the Westin on 57th.”

Bingo.

“When will you be there?” the guy asks.

“Sorry—my mistake—it was in my pocket all along. Thanks for your help.”

He slams the phone down and grabs his wallet, MacKenzie’s engagement ring and his speech from the hall table. Then he high-tails it into the elevator, out the building and into a waiting cab.

“Where to?” the cabbie barks.

“The Westin on 57th.”

Inside her hotel room, MacKenzie takes off her cardigan and changes the baby’s diaper. She settles with him on the bed, singing softly to him as she tries to hold back the tears. She’s haunted by the last image she has of Will’s eyes, the utter devastation that lay there but reminds herself that, too, was probably feigned.

Besides, she’s got bigger things to worry about: the baby’s feverish and he won’t settle. Now, what will she do?

She feeds him, walks the floor with him and tries to get him to stop crying but he won’t, and soon her own tears start to fall. “Please, honey, go to sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up. We’ll both feel better. Please, honey, please. Mummy needs to sleep, and so do you.”

When Will arrives at the hotel MacKenzie is nowhere to be seen. He quickly decides his best hope lies in playing the celebrity card.

“Excuse me, can you please tell me which room MacKenzie McHale is in?” he asks the young woman manning the front desk.

“I’m sorry, sir, we can’t give out that information.”

“I know, but I’m a reporter, and I’m supposed to interview her tonight," If the woman thinks it's strange to be conducting an interview so close to midnight, she doesn't say. "She gave my assistant her room number but he didn’t write it down correctly.”

She looks him up and down. “You’re Will McAvoy, right? I’ll call and tell her you’re waiting for her.”

 _Fuck._ And then he glances down to where the woman is looking for a phone number, presumably MacKenzie’s. And sees she’s looking at a  _print-out_ of a register.

_MacKenzie McHale. 1422._

Thinking quickly, he pretends his phone suddenly starts to vibrate. “Hold on a second—this might be her.” He pretends to answer it.

“ _What?_ ” he says, in feigned exasperation. “She cancelled? I’m already here. Did she say why? Fine. I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He hangs up. “She cancelled. Thanks for your help.”

He waits for the woman to turn her back, rushes to the elevator and into the car behind someone who has a key pass. Will presses the button for the 14th floor, which, it turns out,  _also_  requires a pass.  _Fuck._

His fellow passengers have already recognized him so he takes that opportunity to groan dramatically.

“Would one of you mind letting me off at the 14th floor? My producer has the key pass and I forgot to get it from him.”

A woman is happy to oblige and he heaves a sigh of relief as he is expelled into the well-lit hallway.

He looks at the signage and heads for rooms 1400–1430. As he gets closer to the room, he hears a baby crying, which gets louder as he approaches. The distressed, painful sounds make his heart race.

He takes a deep breath and knocks on the door.

MacKenzie is still pleading for deliverance from the baby’s cries when Will knocks. She wipes her eyes and peeps through the peephole.

 _How the fuck did you find me?_  No matter. She’s grateful he’s here. He’ll help her figure out what to do.

She opens the door and he’s alarmed when he sees tears streaming down her own cheeks as well as the baby’s.

“He won’t settle, Will,” she cries in frustration. “He needs a doctor. Can you call Roger?”

He whips out his cell phone and dials.

“Roger, it’s Will. I’m sorry to bother you this late but is there any way you could make a house call right now?”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m with MacKenzie. She had a baby two months ago and they’re both sick. She thinks they have the flu. Is there any way you could come to the Westin on 57th and check them out?” he says over the crying baby. “Okay. Great—call me when you get here.”

He hangs up and looks at MacKenzie, who looks flushed and unwell.

“You look like you’re about to faint, Mac. Let me take him. You go sit down.”

“You should go. If you don’t, you’re liable to get it, too.”

“I had the flu shot and I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Will, I meant what I said. I don’t want to speak to you. I appreciate you calling Roger but it doesn’t change anything. Please go.”

“So, don’t speak to me. Just let me help you. I’ll be perfectly quiet.” He looks at her. “He’s mine, too, Mac, and a father ought to be able to help his child. Let me be a father to him. And a helper to you. A silent one.”

“Okay,” she whispers, profoundly grateful to no longer be on her own. She feels the wall she constructed around her heart start to crumble. Hopefully, she can shore it up tomorrow. But right now, she’s so tired.

She extends the baby to Will. Tentatively, he takes him from her, but once he has him firmly in his arms, he holds him like a pro (years of babysitting his brothers and sisters). His heart melts when he looks into the baby’s eyes for the first time. The color of his eyes, a deep blue—and something in his expression—suggest that he’s a McAvoy through-and-through.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispers, rocking him. The baby stops fussing at the sound of his voice. “I know you’re not feeling very well right now, but Uncle Roger’s going to come and help you feel better soon. You just have to hang on a little longer, okay? Mummy’s right here. We’re just going to give her a little break. He looks up at MacKenzie. “Go to bed, Mac. I’ll wake you when Roger gets here.”

She nods, too moved to speak. Will’s a natural with the baby as she knew he would be.

She climbs into the bed while Will settles into an uncomfortable desk chair at the foot of the bed.  _Christ,_  he thinks. _If she’s going to get any rest at all, we need a second room._

The baby starts to fuss again so Will starts singing to him softly, a song he used to sing to MacKenzie when she’d have trouble falling asleep. Tears prick at her eyes when she hears him start singing. He croons so softly, so lovingly, so sweetly that the baby quiets immediately and MacKenzie feels herself dropping off to sleep. Will is still staring at the baby 30 minutes later when his phone starts to vibrate, letting him know Roger is downstairs.

He looks around for MacKenzie’s room key, locates it on the dresser and steals quietly out into the hallway with the slumbering baby in his arms. Bleary-eyed and exhausted, he heads downstairs and finds Roger at the front desk just as the baby starts to stir.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, ignoring the stare of the woman he lied to earlier.

“You’re taking this remarkably well,” Roger says.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“You mean the fact that she had another man’s baby?”

“Yes,” Rogers says, following Will into the elevator.

“She didn’t,” Will says. “He’s mine.”

Roger’s jaw drops. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope."

"Let me guess. She tried to tell you in one of the many letters you ignored."

Will looks at him, ashamed.  "Yes."

"Is that why she's here? To tell you?"

"Yes. And to tell me to fuck off, but I'm pretty sure that was just a bonus."

“So I take it you're _not_ back together? Because of the other guy ... the anchor?” Roger asks.

Will glances quickly at Roger and then back at the baby’s unhappy face. “Maybe because of him but definitely because she hates me. She thinks I abandoned her and—”

“You did.”

“I know.”

“Well, what about the other guy? Is she still with him?”

“I don’t know. We haven’t exchanged two civil words since she got here.” They step into the elevator, and despite his apprehension, Will can’t help smiling at the baby as he adjusts him in his arms. His heart skitters when Henry’s perfect rosebud mouth turns in to a frown. “Oh, you don’t like that?” Will says, propping him a little higher. “How’s this?” Will holds his breath as the baby’s frown deepens. “Hang on, honey. We’re going to get you back to Mummy in just a second.”

The baby starts to cry and Will murmurs soothingly to him, humming the little tune he’d sung earlier. The baby looks at him curiously and falls silent. “Whew,” Will says, breathing a sigh of relief.

“You’re good at that,” Roger says.

“It’s just luck,” Will shrugs, not realizing MacKenzie had listened to Will’s show while she was pregnant. She may not have been able to look at Will, but she could listen to him and try to forge some kind of connection between him and the baby.

“So she hasn't forgiven you."

"That would be an understatement. She wants nothing to do with me. She’s only letting me help her because they’re both sick. She’s moving to London next month and we’re to communicate only through her lawyer. If I try to contact her directly, she’ll get a restraining order.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry, Will. I'm not surprised, but I'm sorry."

“It’s all my fault.”

“I know it is. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. But I have to do something. Fast."

When they arrive at MacKenzie’s room, Will stops and turns around. “Look. I know you don’t think much of me these days, either, Roger, but she despises me right now. She really does—”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It’s true. Though I think "loathe" was the exact word she used. You’ll see for yourself in a second. But … listen. I need some time to figure out how to prove to her that she can trust me. In the meantime, please don’t say anything that will make her hate me more.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Okay.” Will uses the pass to open the door and motions Roger to wait in the hallway. “Just a second. Let me tell her you’re here.”

The half-light from the street below illuminates the darkness and when he looks in the bed, he sees MacKenzie is still sleeping. “Mac,” he says softly, going to wake her. He puts his hand gently on her shoulder, and she startles awake, surprised to see Will hovering above her.

“Roger’s here,” Will tells her.

“Hello, MacKenzie,” Roger says when Will waves him in. “It’s good to see you again. How are you feeling?”

“Hello, Roger,” she says, sitting up quickly. “Thank you for coming. Can you check the baby first? I can wait.”

“Sure. Will? May I?” he says, asking for the baby. Roger lays Henry on the bed and does a quick examination, asking MacKenzie about his symptoms and elimination patterns during the last few hours.

She struggles to stay awake as she tells him.

Will re-fastens the snaps on Henry’s onesie while Roger puts his stethoscope away. “He’s got a high fever,” Roger tells them, “But this medicine should bring it down quickly.” He administers the medicine with a dropper, making the baby howl in disgust. “Give him this every four hours and lots of fluid, which means you’re not going to get as much rest as you need unless he’s willing to take a bottle,” he says, addressing MacKenzie. “Is he?”

“I’ve never tried.”

“I’d like you to,” he says, feeling MacKenzie’s burning forehead. He takes her temperature before addressing Will.

“Will, you need to get her a breast pump and some bottles. She can express some milk, and you can take care of the baby while she rests. I’ll make a list of the things she needs.”

“I’m sure we can manage on our own,” MacKenzie says quickly. “Will is interviewing the president tomorrow.” She turns to Will. “Which is why you should go home and get some sleep. It’s after midnight. Thank you for asking Roger to come by, but we’ll be fine.”

“Forget it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Will—"

“MacKenzie,” Roger interjects. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but you’ve also got a high fever, and you need to rest. The flu can be dangerous if you don’t take care of yourself, which is why you shouldn’t be caring for a sick baby alone. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics that are safe for women who are breastfeeding and call it into the 24-hour pharmacy down the block. They deliver.” He looks at Will. “Is there anyone who can stay with her until you’re finished with the interview?’

“No. I’m going to call Charlie,” he says, getting up.

MacKenzie tries again. “Will, you cannot miss that interview! It’s a huge get!”

“I don’t give a fuck about the interview, Mac. You’re sick, he’s sick, and I want to take care of you.” He heads for the door.

“Will, don’t!” she calls after him. “If you do well, it could be a huge feather in your cap. It could open the doors to bigger networks: CNN, NBC, ABC!”

He turns back to look at her incredulously. “You think I give a shit about any of that when you’re about to walk out of my life and take him with you?”

“Will, we’re talking about your career. We’ll be fine without you.”

He can only stare at her, a pained expression on his face that slowly turns to indignation.

“You act like a father's some superfluous piece of flotsam, Mac. As if it doesn't matter whether he's in the picture or not—like a fucking piece of furniture. But you’re wrong.” And then he’s on a roll, flabbergasted to learn she thinks so little of his importance in Henry’s life. “Children with fathers in the home do better in school, they’re better behaved during adolescence, they’re more likely to attend college, and they’re less likely to divorce. I want to be there for Henry every day—not just a couple weeks out of the year. He needs a father. So, unless you’re planning to replace me with someone closer to home," he says pointedly, inwardly shuddering as he thinks of Pete, “… he needs me. Excuse me,” he says, exiting the room to call Charlie.

“I was talking about tomorrow,” she says softly to the door. “That we’d be fine without him tomorrow. I didn’t mean for the rest of Henry’s life.”

Roger looks at her, obviously wanting to comment but hesitant to.

“What is it, Roger. What are you not saying?”

“Look, it’s none of my business, but I’ve known Will since we were five years old. I know what kind of man he is, and I know why he is the way he is. You know his dad—he’s a…” _monster_ , he wants to say, but stops himself. “Well ... we both know what he is. Anyway, Will ended up developing some pretty crappy coping mechanisms. I’m not saying he couldn’t use a few years in therapy. I’m saying that what he feels and the way he acts are often diametrically opposed. Especially in matters of the heart.” He runs his fingers through his hair, knowing he has to tread delicately, very delicately here. “Like I said: I know it’s none of my business, but I also know he’s truly sorry for what he did. He was so happy when you were together. Happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

She knows Roger means well. She knows he loves Will and wants only the best for him, but she also knows he doesn't have the first clue about what happened between them or the calamitous effect it had on her psyche. How it felt to go from being the center of someone's universe to someone deemed unworthy even of human kindness. “You know something, Roger? When Will and I were together,  _I’d_  never been so happy. Because we had something extraordinary together. Absolutely beautiful. But he …” she trails off, her voice cracking. “What he did …” she whispers. ”…nearly destroyed me.” Her eyes fill with tears. “And I will never be able to trust him again.”

Roger nods and looks at her sympathetically, observing the wounded look in her eyes.

There’s nothing he can say to that.

 _There’s a good chance you’re not coming back from this, my friend_ , he thinks sadly.

Out in the hall, Will calls Charlie.

“Charlie, it’s Will. I’m sorry to bother you this late, but I have an emergency, and I need to take the next week off, starting tomorrow.”

Roger opens the door into the hallway to hand Will a list of the things MacKenzie will need. Will takes the list and Roger goes back into MacKenzie’s room, leaving the door ajar.

“Are you out of your mind?” Charlie exclaims. “You’re interviewing the president tomorrow, Will! Now’s not a good time.”

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“I’m sorry—I can’t do it. It’s too late.”

“Then I have to resign.”

_“What?”_


	9. Chapter 9

Will hates letting Charlie down but what else can he do? He doesn't have a moment to lose: every second she's in the same zip code must be spent proving to her that he can be trusted. 

“I'm with my ex-girlfriend,” Will tells Charlie, trying to keep his voice down so as not to disturb the other guests. “MacKenzie. Remember?”

“I may be old, Will, but I'm not senile. Of course, I remember. She was going to lead my newsroom until someone—presumably you—screwed it up."

“Right. Sorry about that," Will says. 

"You said emergency. Is she alright?"

At that moment something blue appears in the corner of Will's eye. He glances up to see a pack of five teenage boys laughing and needling each other as they make their way down the hall, dripping water, obviously just back from the pool. "Hey! Watch it!" Will barks when one kid, obviously not paying attention, nearly runs into him. Will wobbles, trips over his own ankles and is headed for a face-plant in a potted ficus when the kid's arm shoots out and saves him. 

"Sorry, dude. Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Will says, shaking him off. "Thanks. Watch where you're going next time, will you?"

The kid nods and looks at him strangely before continuing his way down the hall.

"Christ," Will mutters as he puts the phone back up to his ear. This evening just keeps getting better and better. 

"Will?" Charlie says.

"Sorry about that," Will tells him. "What did you just say?"

" _Emergency._  Is she alright?" 

"Yeah—no, I mean she's sick. They both are."

"You're not making any sense, Will. Start making some."

"She was pregnant when we broke up, Charlie. She had the baby and—"

He doesn't have time to finish that sentence because Charlie is cutting him off with a jubilant, braying explosion of sound.

“ _What?_   Why didn't you tell me you're a father? _Congratulations!!!"_

Will wipes his hand tiredly across his forehead. "Thanks. I didn't tell you because I didn't know. Until tonight."

The line goes eerily quiet.

"She didn’t tell you?” 

Will hesitates. He respects Charlie. He _likes_ Charlie. He likes the fact that Charlie seems to think well of him. Therefore, he hates the idea of disappointing Charlie. On the other hand, maybe owning up to his sins will be a step in the right direction. Even if MacKenzie never speaks to him again, maybe it's time to admit the unvarnished truth to the world: he's a monster.

“She tried, but, I ... uh ... ignored her.”

More silence on the end of the line. "You ignored her?" Charlie repeats, his tone quietly bewildered. 

"Yeah. I uh ... changed my email addresses and phone numbers. She sent letters ... but I ... uh ... refused to read them."

"I see," Charlie says icily. And then, in a voice ten decibels louder, "What in the hell is _wrong_ with you, Will?!" 

“It's a long story.”

He can tell by the sound of Charlie's breathing—a little off, a little harsh—that he's trying to master his anger. But, ever the pragmatist, he's soon back to the matter at hand: “You should be ashamed of yourself, Will, and I hope to Christ you are, but what does that have to do with needing time off?"

"They have the flu and they need someone to look after them.”

Predictably, that explanation is not good enough for his boss. “Hire a nurse, Will. You cannot miss that interview.”

A nurse? MacKenzie would probably send her home as soon as he left the room. And then she'd take off. In fact, it would be just _like_ her to take off, if only to give him another poke in the eye. It occurs to him then that she's probably already planning her escape. And _then_ it occurs to him that he has no idea how long she's planning to stay in town. Three days? Two? No, he scoffs. One is more like it: she probably envisioned a surgical strike when she was making her travel plans—a hit and run that would leave him bleeding on the sidewalk with nary a doctor in sight. _Which means she's probably leaving tomorrow_. Shit. He does not have time to screw around with this interview.  

"Charlie, I'm sorry, but I can't—"

"Let me put it to you this way, Will. I feel for you—no, I feel for MacKenzie. But the more pressing concern—at least for AWM's CFO—is the millions of dollars' worth of advertising AWM is going to have to eat if you don't do that fucking interview. Find someone to stay with her until you get home and take the next week off to grovel." He pauses. "No, you'll need more than that. Take three."

Will sympathizes with Charlie's position but he can't afford to risk it. Every moment he's away from her is a moment she can use to reinforce the wall she's (okay, he's) erected between them. “Can't you give it to Sean? He's chomping at the bit and he's still pissed you passed him over for the job."

"Sean couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel. Which is why I chose you. However, in light of what you just told me, I am seriously questioning my judgment. I need my best and brightest on this, Will, and you're it."

"I'm sorry, Charlie, but I can't risk it. I can't entrust their care to just anybody, and frankly, every second I lose with her is another nail in my coffin. She's probably making a voodoo doll of me as we speak." 

Roger exits the room just then and Will is forced to suspend his phone call yet again. "Just a second. My friend's here—he's a doctor—and he just finished checking them out. I need to talk to him." He puts the phone down by his side. "What do you think? Are they going to be okay?"

"The baby's temperature is coming down, so he should be fine as long as you keep giving him medicine and plenty of fluids. MacKenzie's fever is still too high and I don't like the fact that she's dizzy. Do whatever you have to do to get her to rest, Will. Get the breast pump, make sure she takes the medicine I called in and give her plenty of fluids. Water. Broth. Juice. Whatever. Keep it coming. Tylenol to manage the symptoms. Here's a list of the things they'll need," he says, handing him a slip of paper. "The pharmacy's bringing the stuff I crossed out but you'll need to restock tomorrow. I'll stop by at noon to check on them. Call me if you need me—doesn't matter what time."

Will looks at Roger with gratitude. Once again, his friend has ridden to his rescue. "Thanks, Roger," Will says, a lump in his throat. "I owe you. For this and about a million other things. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good luck," Roger says meaningfully.

Will returns the phone to his ear. "Hey, Charlie. I'm back. Sorry about that. Where were we?"

"I was telling you to hire a nurse."

"Right. I can't. I wouldn't have the first clue about finding one at this hour, and even if I did, MacKenzie thinks she's superhuman so she'd probably send her home as soon as I left the room."

"Get her to agree not to."

Will snorts. "I'm the last person in the world who could get her to agree to anything." 

What does he have to say to Charlie to get through to him? He's wasting precious time and he's fairly certain _that_  commodity—like everything else in this debacle—is not on his side.

Does he have to spell it out for the man?

Maybe he does.

Fine.

"...Which is another reason I have to stay. Look, Charlie, to be perfectly honest, I have a chance to salvage our relationship now that might not be here tomorrow night." He has no idea why he’s making such wild—and likely unfounded—statements, but at this point, he prefers to think positively—even in the face of certain defeat.

Back in the room, MacKenzie waits on tenterhooks for Will to finish his call.  _Oh, what is that imbecile DOING out there?_ she thinks.  _Is Charlie really going to let him reschedule the interview?_ _Over the flu? That will not look good for Will. Or for ACN, for that matter. He HAS to do that interview._

Does she dare go out there and find out what kind of deal he's made with his boss? No. That will make him think she actually cares about him and his future. Which she most emphatically does not.

Still, it would be a shame for their collective sacrifices (okay, _hers_ ) to go to waste. The truth is, aside from Henry, the only good thing that's come from Will's nightmare move to New York is the boost it's given his career: he's been on the cover of five different national magazines in the last three months. He's been invited to sit on panels and boards and to act as the keynote speaker at journalism conferences. He's even been asked to teach workshops at Columbia (which he rightly refused, given his general inability to tolerate know-nothings). Surely he's not willing to throw away his career on a whim.

Then again, the man isn't known for his common sense, especially when his emotions are engaged. Isn't that what led them down this path in the first place?

 _Arrrgh_ , she groans, startling the baby in her arms. She can't let him make some stupid decision he'll regret.

 _Oh, fie,_ she thinks. _What do I care if he destroys his career? It's nothing to me._  

 _Do you really want Henry to grow up with a failure for a father?_ her conscience needles her.

 _He already IS a failure,_ she reminds herself. _As a human being._

 _Well, he's not going to be a journalistic failure on my account,_ she thinks suddenly. _If he wants to destroy his career, let him do it on his own time. I'll be damned if I give him the_ _satisfaction of using me as an excuse._

Decision made, she gets up and opens the door.

“Salvage your relationship?" Charlie is saying to him. "It sounds like you ignored her for months. Why do you suddenly want to patch things up?" Charlie pauses. "Or is it just because of the baby?" Will hadn’t disclosed the reasons for the breakup at the time, but Charlie never could shake the feeling that it was all Will’s fault. Especially after the closeness he’d observed between he and MacKenzie at brunch that day. And because of this, Charlie feels protective of MacKenzie. 

“What? _No._ I love her, Charlie. I've always loved her. But ... I convinced myself she didn't love me. I made the biggest mistake of my life and I have to fix it. Nothing's more important than this. Nothing. Including my job. So, if you can’t give me the time off, I understand, but I have to resign. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I don’t have a choice.” 

MacKenzie peers out into the hallway just in time to catch Will's impassioned declaration. Of course, it's as she suspected. He's imploding before her eyes.

 _What are you doing???!_  

She steals behind him and puts her hand on his back, making him jump. When he turns back to look at her, she mouths an emphatic “Stop it!”

He turns away from her again. “I understand, Charlie. I understand.”

“Will!” she exclaims, yanking his hand. "You  _have_  to do that interview! It’s a huge deal and you’ll be letting a lot of people down if you don’t! We can manage until you get here. Roger said he'd pop 'round at noon. If being able to say goodbye to Henry is what's bothering you, we'll be here when you get back. Our flight doesn't leave until after midnight."

So, it's true. She _is_ planning to ditch him before the ink on Roger's prescription is dry.

A hotel guest exits a room down the hall so MacKenzie pulls Will back into her room.

“You're leaving tomorrow night?" he asks her.

“Yes.”

“You _can’t,_ " he exclaims as she closes the door behind them. "You need to rest and that’s not enough time for me to—”

She sits down on the bed and gazes up at him. “It’s a nonrefundable, non-changeable ticket, Will.”

_Are you kidding me? Who the hell cares?  
_

"I'll reimburse you. And buy you another ticket for a flight that leaves  _after_ you get well.”

No. She is not staying in this city a moment longer than she has to: the temptation to abandon her principles is far too great. “Will. We’re going home tomorrow night. I have appointments and—”

He grips the phone hard, trying to master his emotions before opening his mouth. He succeeds. Partially. “People _die_ from the flu, MacKenzie. What happens to Henry if you drop dead and it takes Mrs. Thornton a week to find your body? You’re sick. You have to rest. And we need to talk.”

Her eyes narrow. _Aha, you want me to stay so you can try to wear me down. Forget it._ “We’ll be fine.”

He grits his teeth and exhales loudly in frustration. Suddenly remembering the phone in his hand, he turns away from her.

“Charlie. Sorry about that," he says, starting to pace. "Listen, I have to go. But I’ll go along with whatever AWM wants to say in terms of publicity. If you want to say I was fired, that’s fine, whatever works for you. Thanks for … everything. I mean it. You’ve been wonderful, and I’m truly sorry.”

 _"Will!"_   MacKenzie exclaims. "What are you _doing_? You cannot resign and you cannot miss that interview!"

Will walks to where she's standing, his face a study in contrition. "I made a _catastrophic mistake_ ten months ago, MacKenzie. You paid for it _,_ but I am going to do everything within my power to make it right. And I can't _do_ that if I'm not here," he hisses. "Or if you  _leave._ " And then his expression becomes soft and pleading. "Please don't go home tomorrow night. Please."

MacKenzie stares back at him with suddenly moist eyes, moved, in spite of herself, by his determination.

And then Charlie's back in his ear. “Nancy just got off the phone with the nursing agency we used for her mom. They can have someone who’s had the flu shot at your place by 8:00 tomorrow. She’s on the phone with Scary Spice's nanny agency now.”

Will's eyebrows furrow. "Who the hell thought using 'scary' for the name of a nanny agency was a good idea?"

"That's not the name of the agency, Will. It's the one Scary Spice _uses_. The Spice Girl."

“The what girl?"

"Oh, never _mind_ ," Charlie exclaims. "All you need to know is that it's the top-rated nanny agency in New York."

Will stops pacing when it occurs to him that _NOW_ he's got some leverage: she wants him to do the interview.

He turns back to MacKenzie. "I'll do the interview on two conditions: one, don’t go back to DC tomorrow night. Stay for another week. Let me take care of you until you’re feeling better." MacKenzie opens her mouth to protest but he wards her off with a raised hand. "Hear me out. Two, Nancy's lining up a nurse and nanny for tomorrow. Let them help you. Don't send them away until I get home."

“Will—“

“I can’t do that interview unless I know you're being taken care of and I'm going to have more than an hour with you when I’m finished.”

He  _has_ to do this interview, so she gives in. “Okay.”

“You’ll stay? For at least seven days?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

"Thank you," Will mouths to her. “Okay, Charlie," he says into the phone. "I’ll do it. But I still need to take the rest of the week off.”

Charlie breathes a sigh of relief.

“No problem. We’ll send the nurse and the nanny to you at 8:00.”

“Okay, we’re at the Westin on 57th. Room 1422,” Will says, then looks at Roger’s list. “Can you get them to bring a breast pump and bottles?”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” He hangs up and turns to look at MacKenzie, who's staring at him with mouth agape.

“Are you _CRAZY_?" she exclaims. "You were going to _resign_?”

Will's complexion becomes pale with anger and the disturbance of his mind is visible in every feature. He struggles for the appearance of composure and doesn’t open his lips until he believes himself to have attained it.

“If I only have twenty-four hours to convince you you’re making a mistake, you think I’m going to spend fourteen of them on an interview I don’t give a shit about?”

She stares at him. And a little seed of doubt about the veracity of her own convictions takes root. “Okay.”

She sits down on the bed and he takes the chair. The silence stretches between them until he can no longer refrain from asking the question. “How much did you hear? When I was talking to Charlie?”

“Enough.”

“And how do you feel about it?”

“You sounded sincere, but … it doesn’t matter, Will. I can’t trust you.”

“You can.”

“I can’t. I’m going to change and feed the baby and help him get to sleep.”

“I’ll change him,” he says, extending his arms to her.

“I’ll do it,” she says, somehow unwilling now to trust him even with that small gesture, even though she knows he started babysitting his younger siblings at the age of seven, even though he once told her he could change a diaper in his sleep. He blinks and she knows she’s wounded him. _Too bad. I don’t owe you a goddamned thing._ He fixes the blazing intensity of his gaze on her and she feels a sudden, savage glee as she realizes the power she still holds over this man—this selfish, odious man. She _can_ wound him. She _can_ make him suffer.

The sensation of power is intoxicating. 

Her hands curl into fists slowly once, and then she makes them uncoil. The air is dense, her feelings tumultuous. She can barely refrain from saying mean things, things she mostly doesn't mean, to dig knives into him.  

And she hates it. It's a poison, a black tunnel of pain. 

His head feels as though it's caught in a vice that's slowly being wound closed and so, helpless, he sits down in the chair and watches her change the baby. She hands him to him reluctantly and goes to wash her hands. Will hands him back to her when she returns and MacKenzie and the baby settle back into bed. She pulls up her shirt, carefully shielding her breast from Will, and helps the baby latch onto her breast. When he starts to nurse she leans back against the headboard and closes her eyes, shutting Will out. He stares at the woman across from him and the chasm that’s opened up between them ( _the one_   _YOU put there_ , his conscience reminds him) suddenly seems uncrossable. She’s a stranger to him now. A guarded, closed-off stranger who despises him. And it’s all his fault. As the minutes tick by, he tries to think of some way— _any_  way—to get through to her but she’s completely unwilling to let him in. As the hopelessness of his situation dawns on him, he feels hot tears pricking at his eyes.   

_How can I make amends? How can I prove to her that she can trust me?_

The fact that she despises him doesn't prevent him from desiring her more than anything he's ever wanted in his entire life, and all the words he wants to say to her are on the tip of his tongue. But he stops himself because he knows that giving voice to them would be for his benefit—not hers: she’s sick, tired, and deeply wounded. All he can do is try to be here for her, to give her what she needs—as much as she’ll allow.

When the baby finishes nursing she tickles his chin to get him to release her nipple and carefully holds him against her chest. She closes her eyes and presses her nose into his hair and as she breathes in his fresh baby scent, she feels a wave of love and tenderness so powerful she thinks her heart might burst right out of her chest. Henry may have been sired by a monster but he himself is innocent and pure, and if it came right down to it she guesses she’d willingly go through it all again so long as she could have Henry at the end of it.

“Let me put him in the crib, Mac, and then I’ll go see if the pharmacy has dropped off your prescription. You should try to go back to sleep.”

She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice to find him staring at her and her heart stutters at the depth of feeling behind his gaze. It’s that sudden awareness, that sudden insight into his emotional state that causes her anger to diminish. The old MacKenzie would never want to harm another person just because her own heart had been broken. She knows the power she holds over Will should not be carelessly wielded, knows she’ll fail herself if she uses that power to exact revenge, but even that knowledge isn’t enough to completely prevent her from making her displeasure known.

She shakes her head. “I’ll put him down.”

He starts to protest but the cold look in her eyes stops him. She opens the blankets so she can get out of bed and he watches as she gently places the slumbering baby into the porta-crib. Her task accomplished, she gets back into bed and closes her eyes, effectively dismissing Will. He wants to grab her so badly, to bulldoze through the cement wall she’s erected around her heart, but how can he when it’s all his fault? He has no enticements or inducements that might change her mind. He’s completely bereft.

There is one thing he can do, and that is get her prescription. So, he tiptoes to the door and goes downstairs. When he returns, he grabs a bottle of water and gently rubs her shoulder to awaken her. She’s startled when she sees him. “Your prescription’s here. Take this, okay?” he tells her.

She nods and accepts the water and pill he’s handing her and he tentatively reaches out to feel her forehead. “You’re still burning up, Mac. Try to get some sleep, okay?”

She nods again, too wrung out to reply.

“Goodnight,” he says, resisting the urge to stroke her cheek.

She looks up at him. "You should go home, Will. Get some sleep. We'll be fine until the nurse and nanny get here."

"No."

“ _Will_ ,” she says, trying to keep her impatience in check. “You have to sleep tonight.”

“I’ll be fine.”

"And just where do you intend to sleep? In that chair?"

"I'll put my head down on the desk. It'll be fine."

She rolls her eyes. It won’t be fine. And she knows as well as anyone that a Will who hasn’t had any sleep will not be firing on all cylinders tomorrow night. 

“You can’t sleep there,” she says from the comfort of the lone king-sized bed in the room. "Go _home,"_  she exclaims in frustration.  

Oh, who is she kidding? He's not going to. He's stubborn as a mule and fiercely protective of those he loves (and those he only pretends to love, apparently). There's no way he's going to leave them alone tonight. 

Her lips part again, but the breath she inhales stays in her lungs.

She knows the risk in what she’s about to do.

She knows the danger of stirring up hidden things.

She knows the sea is dangerous and the storm terrible and that the roots of their shared past lie just beneath the surface—treacherous and waiting to ensnare her.

But her lips form the words anyway.

“If you insist on staying, you can sleep here,” she says matter-of-factly. She swallows to ease the sudden constriction in her throat. “With me.”

As he opens his mouth to protest (inexplicably angering her further), she cuts him off. “Do you think I’ll be able to sleep in this bed knowing you’re bent double in that chair?”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t have to.” Then, lest he get the wrong idea: “I’m not offering because I want you back, Will. I don’t.”

His face clouds over for a moment and she rejoices. “I simply want you to be able to conduct that interview without embarrassing yourself. You won’t be able to do that if you haven’t slept, so …” She holds her hands out in a gesture of mock surrender. “Here we are. I’m sure we can manage to keep our distance from one another. Surely your habit of migrating to my side of the bed and burying your face in my neck is now broken.”

He stares at her. She has the distinct impression she’s being weighed and measured and is coming up short. “I don’t remember you being quite so …unkind,” he says slowly.

She’s ashamed to feel her eyes filling with tears. “I suppose abandonment will do that to you. I hope you never know what it’s like.”

He waits a beat. “I think you’re very much hoping I’ll know what it’s like.”

She shrugs. “Do you blame me?”

He looks at her thoughtfully for a moment before shaking his head. “No.”

She wipes her eyes. “Come to bed, then. It’s late.”

He doesn’t reply, only walks to the other side of the bed. She scoots over to her edge as far as she can, and he climbs in, fully clothed. She reaches up to turn off the lamp, and they lay there in silence.

She exhales softly, knowing her next suggestion is even more idiotic than her last. But what choice does she have, really? Even if her presumption about knowing the important aspects of his character was off, she _does_ know a few things about the man beside her. She knows how he takes his coffee (cream, one sugar), knows he loves Milk Duds and hates Caesar salad. Knows he hates Stephen Sondheim musicals and loves the ones by Rodgers and Hart. Knows the deep puncture wound on his thigh is from a man who thought throwing a dart at his seven-year-old was a suitable punishment for striking out at the plate. Knows exactly where to place her fingertip to trip the electric hammer blow of ecstasy. Knows the fevered, devoted look in his eyes when he comes apart beneath her and the electric current that traverses his body when he sobs her name. She knows his sleep habits, too. Which is how she knows he’ll never be able to fall asleep if he tries to do so fully clothed. He’s always been high alert, so everything in his environment has to be just right in order for him to fall asleep.

“Do what you need to do, Will,” she whispers, not unkindly. “Take off your clothes. We both know you won’t be able to sleep if you don’t.”

He swallows and does as she asks. He pulls off his shirt and pants and tosses them on the chair nearest his side of the bed, leaving himself clothed only in his boxers and a t-shirt. As she listens to him breathing quietly in the dark she struggles with her warring emotions. It feels simultaneously foreign and absolutely right to have him in bed with her but she resists the urge to move closer to him.  

There are three feet between them and he wants nothing more than to close the distance between them and pull her into his arms but he lost that right when he threw her out of his life. Christ. He can hardly believe he’d been such an asshole. And that he’d had the gall to vilify  _her_.

“Mac?” he whispers.

“Yes?”

“I’m so sorry.”

She’s silent for a moment before replying, “Goodnight, Will.” She turns on her side, facing away from him.

“Goodnight.”

They both fall into a fitful sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

She tosses and turns for the next hour, feverish and restless. Around two she feels a cool, damp washcloth against her forehead and opens her eyes to see Will hovering above her, wiping her cheeks and neck and all the skin within reach.

“So hot, Billy,” she murmurs, her brain too foggy to remember she despises him.

“Take your clothes off,” he tells her.

“Too tired,” she mutters.

“I’ll help you,” he says. “Sit up.”

She manages to get partially upright and he quickly pulls the shirt over her head. As he does, he tries not to stare at her breasts, which are half again as large as they had been the last time he saw them.

“Shorts, Mac. Lift your hips.”

She does and he pulls the running shorts she’s wearing off her legs, leaving her in nothing but a pair of panties that do nothing to stanch the impure thoughts he’s already having about her.

The air against her skin feels better but she still feels as if she’s roasting by a roaring fire, so Will resumes his ministrations with the washcloth, making circuitous routes on her face. He pauses when she grabs his hand and moves it to her chest, forcing himself to ignore the wished-for intention behind such a move. He soon resumes the motion of his hand and continues to apply the cool, wet cloth to her skin, only stopping to moisten it in the coffee mug he's filled with cold water.

She starts to feel better but all too soon her newly temporal equanimity turns into the chills.

“Too cold now,” she says, her teeth chattering. “So cold, Will. So cold.”

He does what he can but the closet holds no extra blankets and there’s a problem with the laundry so hotel staff won’t be able to deliver one until tomorrow morning. He returns to the bed, riddled with anxiety over her obvious discomfort. Looking around, he grabs the suit jacket he wore for last night’s show and drapes it gently over her body.

“Here,” he says.

She puts her arms into the sleeves, pulls it up to her face and covers her mouth with the collar of the jacket. She can only hope he thinks she’s more concerned with warming her face than with inhaling his intoxicating, earthy, uniquely Will scent.

She grits her teeth and tries desperately to keep her teeth from chattering but it’s hopeless since she now feels as if she’s been thrust into a meat locker. The sound of her front teeth hitting her bottom ones makes Will look at her in alarm but the only thing he can think to propose to ease her suffering is something desperately stupid at this point in the game.

“Do you want me to hold you?”

 _God, yes_. The words are on her lips but she clamps them off.

“I’m alright, thanks,” she manages to get out, grateful the near-darkness hides her inexplicably moist eyes.

“Okay,” he says softly. He tries to hide his disappointment but she can hear it in his voice. Switching off her bedside table lamp, he returns to his side of the bed and climbs in gingerly, not daring to get too close.

Once again, they lay there in silence.

As she waits for her temperature to return to something approximating normal, unwelcome memories of the distant past begin to bubble up inside her: how his body felt pressed against her bare back—damp and hot from fevered lovemaking sessions. The way he’d throw his leg carelessly yet possessively over hers and pull her against him as he buried his face in the back of her neck. The way he’d murmur “I love you” over and over again as he came down, the words coming out in short, sharp gasps.

She’d give nearly anything to have that Will in bed with her now, the Will she’d trusted. What the hell had happened to him? He’d been so steadfast—so devoted to her, so loving. Where did he  _go_? And who is this imposter behind her?

As the minutes pass, the weight of their shared past settles like a tropical heat around her. It thickens the air and makes it heavy as water but there's also something about the darkness that makes it feel as if they’re the only two people in the world. Soon, all she can think about is Will’s presence, his body solid and corporeal beside her. She can hear him breathing in the dark and the sound—so familiar, so soothing, so comforting—tilts the world on its axis. Suddenly, the feelings she had for him, the feelings she still has for the man she lost, feel more solid, more natural and more truthful than anything has in the last ten months. It’s just him and her and at this moment there’s nothing she wants more than to feel his arms around her.

“I changed my mind,” she whispers. “I want you to.”

He exhales softly, trying not to get his hopes up, trying not to read more into this than she might mean. He slides across the bed to press his chest against her back, slips his arm under the suit jacket and tries to ignore the sensation of her breasts against his forearm as he pulls her close. An involuntary sigh escapes her lips and she holds her next breath, waiting for what’s to come.

The skin of her back is hot against his chest and he’s so intoxicated by her nearness he forgets they’re no longer together. Muscle memory makes him press his lips against the bare skin on her shoulder and then she's shivering for an entirely different reason.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I forgot.”

“I keep doing that, too,” she murmurs.

“Forgetting?”

“Yes.”

She twists against him and feels his arousal against her ass.

“Sorry,” he says again.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Do you want to go back to your side of the bed?”

“No,” he says. “Not unless you want me to. Do you?”

She pauses. “No.”

He tries to ignore his ever-hardening erection and so does she until she can stand it no more and rolls onto her back. His hand stays on her chest as she moves.

“Too warm now?” he asks her.

“No, too …” she trails off.  _Turned on_ , she thinks.  _What the fuck is wrong with me? Who the hell wants to have sex when they have the flu?_   She does. Because she wants him. In spite of everything, she _wants_ him. Is there any spin she can put on Will’s behavior that will allow her to forgive it? Demonic possession, perhaps? She can’t reconcile the Will who threw her out of his life with the man who’s been so good to her since he arrived at the hotel.  _This_  is the man she loves, the one who owns her, body and soul. Is there any way she can trust him? She tries to rally long enough to come to her senses, but she simply can’t think when he’s right there next to her.

And so, feeling for all the world that resistance is futile (however desirable it may be), she places her hand atop his and moves it in slow, deliberate motions across her breasts. And as she does, a tight coil of traitorous hope balls beneath Will’s diaphragm that makes it difficult to breathe. He can’t quite believe he could possibly have interpreted her intent correctly so he slips his hand out from beneath hers and places his palm over it, stilling it.

“Is this—”

“Yes,” she answers. _The answer is yes, whatever you're asking_ ( _Is this what you want? Is this really happening?)_. She turns her face toward him and the light from the curtainless windows allows her to look into his eyes. As his clear blue irises—shining with intensity and emotion—focus on her hazel ones, a current of electricity pulses between them that crackles and sparks like an electrical fire that must be contained before it consumes _everything_. But she doesn't want it to be contained. She wants it to devour everything in its path. She wants to revel in it, to forget herself in it, to quench the thirst that's been ten months in the making. She trails her fingertips along his shoulders and up his neck to tangle in his hair, leaving a path of tantalizing fire in their wake that makes him shiver. 

She knows what she wants to do. She knows _exactly_ what she wants to do. She wonders briefly if she should remind him that the flu virus can sometimes be transmitted through saliva—even to people who have had the flu shot—but then thinks maybe she doesn't need to: after all, he's the one who interviewed the head of the CDC during DC's last flu outbreak and a little detail like that is something a fact-junkie like Will is unlikely to forget. Even so, she decides she ought to say _something_  and is just about to when she's momentarily distracted into silence—first by the tantalizing sensation of his fingers caressing her face and then by the intensity of his gaze. 

She wrenches her attention from his eyes and forces her mouth to speak the words.

"Perhaps you should keep your distance, Will," she says and she watches, fascinated, as he inhales sharply and then freezes. _He's afraid._ She can use that knowledge for ill or for good. She can see the shame in his eyes, the embarrassment, and beneath it all, the abject fear that he's screwed things up _again_. _Oh God, did I misread—_

She lets him twist and turn a bit and then offers a clarification. "I don't want you to get sick."

Instantly, he relaxes and the breath he's been holding comes out as a soft sigh against her lips. It would be so much easier if she _didn't_ feel his pain as if it were her own, if he didn't look exactly like the man she used to adore unreservedly. And she hates it because _it isn't fair_ : she's the one who's going to suffer for it _—_ not him—never him. 

"I'll take my chances," he whispers. His expression is earnest and serious and a million other things she wishes it wasn't because it makes her forget what he did to her.

But it doesn't matter. Because she still wants what she wants.

Their lips are millimeters apart, so close he can feel her breath on his mouth. But when she tries to close the distance between them every muscle in his body stiffens.

 _Wait._ “What about Pete?” 

Once again, she doesn’t bother asking how he knows about Pete. Pete’s been a great source of support over the last several months. While their relationship had briefly taken a romantic turn (not because she’d been particularly interested, but because he’d been persistent), they’d kept it mostly platonic. He’d kissed her once—a month ago—but she’d felt nothing, absolutely nothing, so she’d told him it could never be.

She shakes her head. “Friends. He wanted more, but—” 

“But?”

“No.”

He exhales in relief. “Thank God,” he whispers, looking at her intently as he hovers above her, awaiting her next move.

It comes seconds later when she gently presses her lips against his. It’s a featherlight peck of sensation with just a promise of something more but it’s enough to make him lose his mind: the bliss of her soft lips against his, the taste of her—like mint and tea, the knowledge of what she represents in his life—home and love and emotional security—even now. He can’t prevent his tongue from darting out to taste the sweetness of her mouth and when her lips part to welcome his tongue a tremor ripples down his spine. Sharp pricks of adrenaline spike his blood and he’s seized by a nearly uncontrollable urge to claim her mouth in a deep, devouring kiss. But he can’t risk it—not yet. Instead, he returns the kiss carefully, determined to distill his desperate eagerness into tenderness.

He can’t help gripping her more tightly, desperate to taste the very essence of her, and she melts in his possession like wax to flame. His touch, his proximity and his scent are electrifying. Tremors of sensation ripple throughout her body and suddenly, the gnawing hunger that’s tormented her for the last ten months begins to disappear.  _This_  is where she belongs.  _This_  is what she’s been craving. She holds on to him helplessly, unable to retract from him as her insides burn with the impulse to cast aside all restraint and follow wherever he’ll lead. Her passion increases and he responds in kind until their lips and mouths are moving in a desperate frenzy to convey everything that is just beneath the surface. When his kisses finally make their way to her ear he takes her earlobe into his mouth, making her gasp.

_"Billy.”_

He freezes, afraid he’s finally done it, afraid he's finally pushed her too far, but instead of asking him to stop she catches her lower lip between her teeth and lifts her eyes to his. They're large and luminous, and her face is flushed, and he knows not whether it’s from fever or passion or both.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers.

She shakes her head and looks up at him, her fingers curling through the soft blond hair at the nape of his neck.

“No,” she says.

“Are you sure?” he says, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re not well—I don’t want to you to regret—”

“I won’t. I need—" She stops then, unwilling to openly articulate exactly what it is that she needs. All he needs to know is that he’s the only one who can give it to her.

“What? What do you need?”

She doesn’t want to say it. Spoken words are weapons that can blast holes through the world and to say these particular words aloud just now would be to enunciate a truth she’s not yet ready—will perhaps never be ready—to face.

“Don’t make me say it, Will. Just—I need it.”

But flu or no, he’s not letting her off that easy. He can’t. Not if she’s just going to tell him to fuck off afterward.

"You need 'it’—or me?” he asks softly.

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” _It absolutely does_ , he wants to say but doesn’t.

She sighs. “Both, then. I need both.”

He needs no further encouragement. Their lips meet again and as one kiss stretches into another their caresses, at first hesitant, became feverish. The sensation of his beloved lips against her skin blots out the memories of the recent past and the aches and pains that were surging through her mere moments ago and wave after wave of desire courses through her body as she takes deep draughts of him, all pretense of lukewarm affection banished. Her body is on fire, all her emotions unleashed. She has no idea what she’s doing, no idea what’s possessed her, but he is the other half of her soul—no matter what the fuck he did to her—and her hunger for him is insatiable. Which is how she finds herself moving his hand down her stomach to the waistband of her panties. He lets her lead him where she will, and as she does, he dips his head down to kiss her lush, full, breasts. When he gets a taste of the sugary-sweet milk that’s made her breasts half-again their normal size, he uses his tongue to circle her nipple and she gasps when he finally takes it into his mouth.

She lets go of his hand just as it comes to rest below her waist. He lets his fingers rest there, not daring to move until he hears her voice, whisper-soft and full of need. _“Billy.”_ More confident now, he dips his fingers beneath the elastic and inches toward her core. When he finally reaches his target she bucks her hips up, cries out and turns her face toward his. Instantly, his lips are on hers again and he’s kissing her so sweetly, so tenderly that she can’t help reaching for his head, carding her fingers in his hair and returning his kiss with equal fervor. He puts everything he knows about her body and everything he feels for her into his touch as he uses his fingers to carry her higher and higher and as he does a single refrain runs on repeat through his mind: _I’m never letting you go again. Ever._ She’s his life and his soul and he can’t believe he’s been such a fucking idiot. He doesn’t know what he’s going to have to do to earn her forgiveness but he knows he’s going to do whatever it takes _._

When she finally reaches her peak she can’t help crying out for him, saying his name over and over again as she grinds against him. He keeps stroking her, teasing little aftershocks out of her until she’s completely sated and completely relaxed. Habit makes her cling to him as she comes down and she buries her face in his neck, shaking, shuddering as she breathes him in. And at that moment the rage evaporates and all she's left with is the dissonance that produced it:  _I love you, I love you, I need you, how could you do that to me? How can I trust you?_ She’s always been emotionally fragile when she comes down so he holds her tightly and strokes her hair as he kisses every bit of skin within reach. “I’ve got you, honey, I’ve got you,” he whispers. And no matter what, no matter _what_ , she wants to believe him. So, she allows the pain of the past to recede and focuses instead on the exquisite pleasure of the present. It’s a curse—because it makes it hard to remember what he’s done to her—and a blessing—because she loves him and she’s missed him so damned much and everything within her is chanting,  _this is what’s real, this is us,_   _this is right, we belong together._

She pulls back to look at him. “Make me believe,” she murmurs, gazing at him with such vulnerability his heart stutters in his chest. “Make me believe I can trust you.”

“You can,” he whispers earnestly, intensely, with no less conviction than he feels. “I’ll never let you down again.”

She’s too preoccupied to answer, too consumed by the knowledge that she’s in grave danger: if what just transpired, as powerful as it was, could excite such a reaction in her, what’s to come? What hope can she possibly have of opening her body to pleasure while closing her heart to the man himself? It doesn’t bear thinking about, so, she doesn’t, thinking instead of how desperate she is to feel him inside her, to become one with him after so many months in the wilderness. When she slips her hand inside his boxers and reaches for his cock, he jerks back in surprise and then he’s surging forward, groaning as she strokes him.

Pure pleasure contorts his features and she’s astonished to find that the only things she feels for him are the things she has always felt for him: attraction, admiration, and desire. There's no reluctance, no hesitance. There's no fear or residual pain from what he's done. There is only  _love_.  _Why?_ she wonders. _Why am I so willing to ignore what he did to me?_ She can’t decide whether it’s desperation or stupidity or both—or whether it’s simply that her body alone knows the truth.  _How could this be wrong when it feels so right? Surely that has to count for something_. The alternative explanation—that she’s simply a sad, desperate sack who has no self-respect—is far less appealing. Besides, at this moment nothing but the present seems to matter. Not the recent past, when she was desperately unhappy, or the future, which she cannot predict. The only thing that matters is what she’s experiencing right at this moment and that is the exquisite pleasure of being in his arms.

She bites her lower lip, hesitates and looks up at him with her big doe eyes. “Inside me,” she pleads. She knows she’s being reckless but everything within her is screaming at her to finish this.

He feels her need—deeply—but can only anticipate failure. There’s no way he can enter into this—into her—blithely, nor can he pretend to, which is what she seems to want. But how will she react if he completely exposes the level of his own desire, the fact that he will not be able to rest until he's assured of her affections? Will it drive her further away? And if she does give him permission to act, only to change her mind later, is he even capable of walking away? He’s afraid of the answer but knows he doesn’t have a choice: she’s giving him the opportunity to give something to her and he will not let her down. And so, vacillating between desire and fear, he kicks off his shorts and reaches out both hands to pull her flush against his body.

She closes her eyes, wanting to keep some distance between them, wanting only to _feel,_ but opens them at the sound of his voice.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he requests gruffly. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, she does. And what she sees makes her heart skitter in her chest. His eyes are liquid pools that bore into her, his expression equal parts affection and desire and the connection that pulses between them is almost too much for her to bear.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ve loved you completely since the moment we met.” He stares into her eyes, silently willing her to acknowledge the power of the bond that exists between them but she makes no move to answer, only spreads her legs more widely instead, as if urging him to get on with it.

And then they're both startled to discover her hands in his hair. As she pulls his head down to press her lips against his she chides herself for her own weakness.  _Christ_ ,  _do I have any self-control at all?_ _Not where this man is concerned, you don’t_.

Buoyed by her response, he locks eyes with hers, takes a deep, steadying breath and thrusts into the hot, wet welcome of her body. And when he does, she’s spun out on a wave of pleasure so sweet, so joyous she thinks she’ll go mad. He floods through her senses like a tidal wave, breaking over her until she feels every inch of her body and soul surrender to him.

For him, it’s an eddy of pleasure and emotion so profound that the whole world descends into a fuzzy, hazy, magnificent delirium. Until he’d met her, he’d never known the twin ecstasies of total emotional and physical fulfillment, that rainbow of musical colors lifted and rolled into a symphony. Suddenly, it’s as if they’re a single entity with a single mind: she can feel what he feels for her, and for _them_ , and the intensity of his emotions are tentacles that envelop her senses, clouding all thought and reason.

It’s absolutely _glorious._

To be in his arms again, to feel him inside her, to be able to lose herself once more in a connection so profound it’s a marriage in every sense of the word. She feels it in every cell in her body, warm and steadying and as powerful as the sun. _I love you, Will, I love you, God, I love you_ , she thinks helplessly. Somehow, miraculously, she’s able to keep from saying it out loud but she knows with shame and absolute certainty that she does, _oh she does_. He can’t keep from verbalizing it, though and his words provide the same, steady drumbeat they’ve always provided during their lovemaking: a grounding, steadying background thrum that makes her heart swell and every one of her nerve endings take flight.

He’s all tenderness, all thoughtfulness, but seconds into it an echo of a voice implores her to close her heart to this man: _he doesn’t deserve you._ Another subterranean voice lashes out in reply, reminding her their bond does not require the building of walls: it requires remaining open to life’s pleasures and pain, and that a bond like theirs is more profound than wanting it or not wanting it. She must make a decision but she must make it with an open mind and heart.

He catches her hands and pins them above her head as he slowly thrusts into her and heat rises in her belly and low in her core. She hears herself begging but she has no idea for what, and as he stares into her eyes an arc of electricity passes between them that causes the same liquid ecstasy that flows through her veins to take up residence inside him. When she twists her hips the movement pulls a deep, lust-filled sound from his throat that vibrates through their shared connection. He tries desperately to muffle it against her lips and a thrill of triumph bubbles in her chest at the knowledge she can affect him as deeply as he can affect her. She cries out when he bends his head down in response, sucking the tip of her breast into his mouth as he thrusts sharply into her depths.

He can feel himself starting to lose control. And she's right there with him, trembling, on the edge of exploding, desperation pressing her body further than it’s ever gone. When he lets go of her hands she arches her back and grips the sheets with her toes to press upwards with her heels, lifting her body to meet his thrusts. He cups her ass with both hands, powering through a series of staccato thrusts that take her breath away. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. “I love you so much.” His voice is barely above a whisper, so low that she can barely make out the words. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, Kenz. Please forgive me.”

“Shhhh,” she whispers. She doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to topple from the thin knife blade of pleasure she’s walking—not yet, not just yet—or to be reminded of why they’re not at this moment in a home they share. So, she says no more—couldn’t—even if she wanted to—because she can’t think—she can only feel. And what she feels is unalloyed pleasure, untainted by the part of her that’s ashamed of his power over her. In this moment, she can only rejoice: the part of her that is his supplicant is in charge, and she has missed this act—this coming together _—_ this _holy_ communion—desperately. 

“This is us, honey,” he breathes as he stares down at her, plumbing the depths of their shared soul with his exquisite blue eyes. “This is  _everything_. This is  _us_. Stay with me. Don’t look away.” Her eyes grow moist at his words and his gaze is so intense she has no choice but to obey. He’s right. This is everything. It’s the crystallization of the bond that exists between them, still as strong, sinuous and pliable as the moment it was forged. 

The pathetic truth is that it doesn’t matter. Any of it. Because she needs this. She needs _him_. And so, she wraps her legs around his waist and bucks frantically against him, possessed by the same insane craving that’s overwhelming him in a frenzy of instinct and emotion. As she stares into his eyes, the current of electricity that binds them together becomes a blinding surge of pleasure and then she’s helpless, borne out on a wave of ecstasy so powerful that all she can do is try to hold on as she allows him to make her come so hard she has to bite down on his shoulder to keep from waking the baby. She clings to him as her body takes over, one large mass of pure sensation and need. There is nothing else, only him and what he makes her feel. And as she tumbles down, down, down into the ecstasy only he can give her, the sound of his name on her lips becomes a low moan that sets off a volcanic chain reaction in his body. It shatters at the base of his spine and surges through him, discharging bright flashes of light that completely obliterate his vision. Pieces of his skull separate and re-fuse and as he rocks against her, delivering his ejaculate into her, he tells her over and over again how much he loves her. “I—love you—Kenz. I love you. I’ll spend—the rest of—my life—proving it—to you—if you’ll only—let me. Please—let me—prove it to you—please,” he whispers, his words coming out in short, sharp gasps.

The emotion in his voice and the love in his eyes is too open, too raw, for her to stand, so she forces herself to resist the power of his gaze and squeezes her eyes shut before turning her head away. “Don’t—please don’t.”

“Why?” The pain in his voice is audible. She forces herself to open her eyes and discovers he’s staring at her, deeply affronted. She reaches up to smooth his hair back from his forehead and tries to speak soothingly to him: this is _Will_ , after all, ablaze and alight with love for her. However complicated it may be. However _feigned_ it may be, she thinks suddenly and is instantly annoyed by her own spinelessness, by her complete willingness to give herself to the man who crushed her under his boot (conveniently forgetting she's the one who instigated their physical reunion). “I can’t think about that right now—not—” She swallows, tries to clear her head before looking away again. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, okay?”

The conflict within her is palpable so he doesn’t press her, knowing she’s struggling with something she’s not yet able—or willing—to verbalize. “Okay,” he sighs, bending down to kiss her forehead. She has every intention of keeping her head turned away but the sensation of his lips on her skin gives her body other ideas, which is how she finds herself pulling his head down and pressing her mouth—open and frenetic—against his jaw, his throat, his chest, anywhere she can reach.

When she finally breaks the kiss he pulls back to look at her. “God, I love you,” he whispers. He withdraws from her, then encircles her lax body with his arms and rolls them both onto their sides. She throws one smooth, pale thigh over his hip and as she presses her face into his neck, her gentle fingers stroke the hair behind his ear. He kisses her shoulder, tucks her head under his chin and drops a kiss into her hair, sighing as he inhales the heavenly scent of her lavender shampoo. “Think you can get some sleep?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, halfway there already. And, because she’s helpless against whatever it is that exists between them, she burrows as closely into him as she can.

 _This_ _is home,_ she thinks. _God help me, but it is._


	11. Chapter 11

The baby awakens at four and this time, she allows Will to share the chores: he changes him and she feeds him. Will forces her to take her medicine at the appointed time and administers the baby’s. As she sinks back down into the bedclothes, completely wrung out and feeling like absolute crap, she has to admit—if only to herself—that she’s terribly grateful Will followed her to the hotel: she can only imagine how difficult it would have been to try to care for the baby alone in her current state.

By 4:30, they’re all dozing fitfully again. When Will awakens at 6:45, MacKenzie and Henry are still asleep, so he gets up, pulls on his boxers and t-shirt, heads to the bathroom and scrounges around in MacKenzie’s toiletry kit to locate the extra toothbrush he knows she has in her possession at all times. When his fingers curl around a prescription bottle he lifts it up to read the label and his eyebrows furrow in confusion. _A woman who balks at taking an Advil is taking antidepressants? While breastfeeding? What’s that about?_ He brushes his teeth, swigs a mouthful of mouthwash and decides he’ll ask her about it later.

He pokes his head outside the bathroom door. As his eyes flit from the delicate form of the woman lying in bed with her face buried in his pillow to their son slumbering in the port-a-crib next to the bed—the baby’s perfect rosebud mouth quivering through what must be a particularly vivid dream—he's suffused with tenderness. And resolve. Yes, he hurt her badly, but he’s going to do whatever it takes to ensure they move forward together: in the same country, the same state, the same city and the same home. As a _family_. This is the fight of his life and he’s going to win it.

Energized, he comes out of the bathroom to find MacKenzie stirring and climbs into bed beside her just as she’s opening her eyes.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he whispers and she blinks, disoriented. He can see her starting to distance herself from him so he uses the only disruptive technology he has in his arsenal to prevent it: he kisses her. He feels slightly guilty for taking advantage of the fact that she can’t resist him any more than he can resist her, but if that’s the only trick he has up his sleeve he’s going to use it. Instantly, instinctively, she returns his kiss, savoring the sweetness of his mouth as she curls her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. Part of her wishes she had the self-control to turn her face away but even if she did, she supposes it would be ridiculous given what transpired between them last night.

He pulls back to look at her. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” she answers. “Henry—”

“… is still sleeping. And having an exciting dream by the looks of it.”

She peers over the side of the bed to peek at the baby. Satisfied, she turns her attention back to Will, who's gotten out of bed and is opening the in-room refrigerator. He pulls out a bottle of juice and walks back over to the bed, unscrewing the cap as he goes. “You can't take more Tylenol for another hour or so, but maybe this will help."

He hands her the bottle and when she takes it he feels her forehead. _Still too warm._ She feels much worse this morning than she did last night so she wordlessly takes the bottle from him and takes a deep draught. The cold liquid feels marvellous against her raw throat and she looks at him gratefully. Except for that one, hideous act, he has always anticipated her needs, has always watched out for her, has always taken care of her. A lump forms in her throat as she looks at him and wonders how much weight her psychiatrist would say she should assign to one dreadful (unforgivable?) act versus the hundreds—no,  _thousands_ —of wonderful ones. What kind of scale does one use to weigh betrayals and pain against love and good deeds? She didn’t think to ask yesterday at her most recent thrice-weekly session; there’d been no reason to. At that time, her plan was simply to deliver her news and go. But it seems reality is far more complicated than the narrative she’d spun in her head. And as she looks at him now, she’s confronted with the cold, brutal truth: she still loves him. Desperately. But alongside that love is the remembrance of the pain he caused her. 

She shakes her head to clear it and he reaches out to grab the empty bottle from her hand, replaces the cap and sets it on the bedside table. And then he's climbing back into bed beside her. There's something odd in the way he deliberately keeps his eyes trained on her face and when she looks down she flushes bright pink: the sheets are curled around her waist, leaving her top half exposed. She goes to pull the sheet over her chest but Will’s hand stops her. “Don’t. Please. You’re beautiful. Perfect.”

She swallows and it feels like she's ingested knife blades. “Hoping for a repeat performance, Billy?” she croaks.

Then it’s his turn to blush. “Just … stating the facts.”

“So … you’re _not_ hoping for a repeat performance?”

“I don't know how to answer that.”

“How about the truth?”

“Ah, the truth. Well, the truth is that in general, I’m always hoping for a repeat performance with you. But … that's not what I was thinking when I said it. I was simply making an observation. You're beautiful.” Something in his throat catches. She obviously views his motives with suspicion so maybe he should change the subject to something less apt to rouse her ire and/or remind her of the fact that he fucked up so egregiously. He fumbles for something to say. _Hair. I'll talk about her hair_. He reaches out to touch it, lifting the ends where they lay curled around her neck, touching her collarbone. “Your hair’s longer. It’s … different. Nice, but different. You decided to grow it out?”

Apparently, that was precisely the wrong thing to say. Her disapproval is instantaneous and palpable. “Maintaining my beauty regimen hasn’t exactly been high on my list of priorities, Will."

 _Okay, then. Guess it’s back to the doghouse for me._ “Of course. I didn’t mean—honest to God, Mac ..." He sighs. "... All I was thinking is that your hair is longer. Nothing more, nothing less.” Will he ever again be able to make an innocuous comment without her attributing some nefarious motive to it? Probably not anytime soon, he wagers. He’ll just have to live with it.

He clears his throat, trying once again to think of something to say that might bridge the gap between them. He comes up empty on that one, so he settles for the—hopefully—unobjectionable.  Breakfast. He'll talk about breakfast.

“The nanny and nurse will be here in an hour," he tells her. "You want to have a shower while I order breakfast? Yogurt, fruit, poached eggs—soft—all the usual except the sourdough? Stuff that'll be easy on your throat?”

He knows her too well. She nods. “You’ll take care of Henry if he wakes up?”

“Of course. But leave the door unlocked, will you? In case you get dizzy?”

“Okay,” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and freezes. Thin pinpricks of light dance across her vision and she's so nauseous she briefly wonders if she's going to end up depositing her juice on Will's bare feet. She swallows, gulping air, and then he’s beside her, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yes," she whispers. "Just—dizzy. Nauseous.”

_Why the hell does this keep happening and why the hell hasn't Roger texted me back? How long does it take to get an appointment with an OB-GYN you're sleeping with, for Christ's sake? Can't you just sneak her appointment calendar from the bedside table and pencil MacKenzie in?_

He doesn't want to worry MacKenzie, so he pretends her dizzy spell has left him unperturbed.

“Can I get you anything?"

"No. I'll be fine when it passes."

"Okay. When it does, how about if I stand outside the tub while you shower? That way, I can keep an ear out for Henry and you can grab onto me in case it happens again." He peers at her closely, noting her pallor. "Or ... maybe you'd rather forego your morning ritual?"

“No," she says softly. "A shower would be lovely. Let's give your idea a try.” He quickly orders breakfast (he has to make sure she eats _something_ ), and when she's ready he helps her out of bed and puts his arm over her bare shoulders as they walk to the bathroom.

She resists the urge to grab his suit jacket from the chair and wrap herself in it. She knows she’s being absolutely ridiculous: he’s seen it all, hundreds of times, so she’s not sure why she suddenly feels self-conscious about her unclothed body, particularly the soft stomach that appeared when she gave up her daily runs. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. She glances at him and he meets her eyes and she sees he's looking at her in the same way he always has, with affection and love.

He helps her into the bathroom, turns on the shower and stands beside her—one ear cocked for Henry—as she brushes her teeth. When the water’s warm, he helps her into the tub and slides the door partially closed, leaving about six inches of space between the jamb and the edge of the door. “I’m right here, Mac. Holler at the first sign of trouble, okay?”

“I will,” she says softly. “Thank you.”

As she showers, she thinks about what happened last night and wonders what it meant to him. She’d be hard-pressed to say what it meant to her, exactly: she’s torn between wanting never to leave his side and making him suffer for the rest of his days.

She's just about finished—with only her hair left to rinse—when she sees his hand enter the enclosure and grab onto one of the handicapped bars. It’s the first time she’s noticed the bars and she wonders why it hasn’t yet occurred to him that keeping someone from keeling over is precisely their intended use. She tilts her head to rinse the soap out of her hair and is just about to ask him to check on Henry when she's nearly overcome by nausea and dizziness. She grabs Will’s wrist with one hand and the bar with the other and instantly the shower door is sliding open and he’s stepping in behind her, putting his arm around her waist. He reaches his other hand across her shoulder to turn off the water but she stops him.

"My hair. The shampoo," she says shakily.

"Let's get you steady first," he says. "Then I'll rinse, okay?"

"Okay," She closes her eyes as she leans back into him and is immediately transported back in time to dozens of morningsjust like this one, mornings in which they'd stand beneath the shower spray in the too-small-for-two tub in their cramped apartment. One person would bathe while the other would stand behind, washing the other's hair, kissing their back and smoothing their wet hands down the other's body. It's all so achingly, painfully familiar: the sensation of his body against her back, his large hands on her scalp, the way his surprisingly delicate fingers would smooth her hair back from her forehead lest an errant rivulet of shampoo trickle into her eyes. 

It's nearly more than she can bear and she squeezes her eyes tightly shut to hold back the tears. 

“How are you doing?” he murmurs into her ear.

“It’s a little worse than usual," she answers in a wobbly voice. 

 _This can't be normal._ If he doesn't hear from Roger in the next hour he's calling every MD in his Rolodex to find a good OB-GYN. However, now's not the time to give voice to his fears.

“You ready for me to rinse?" 

"Yes."

She stands there like a child, holding on to the grab bars as he keeps one arm around her waist and rinses her hair. When she tilts her head she notices something white in her peripheral vision: it's a sliver of Will's t-shirt, bunched up around his forearm as works his fingers through her hair.

"Will—you're getting soaked!" 

"It doesn't matter," he says and she's unsurprised by his words. _No, it wouldn't matter. Not to you. Because that's the kind of man you are._

_Were._

Solid, dependable and completely devoted to her.

 _God, I miss you, Will. I  miss you so much. I miss US._   _We were so HAPPY together._ _Why did you have to ruin it?_  

She can feel the pressure building behind her eyes and she knows she's going to lose it. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_   She has to pull herself together because she can't let him know much being in his arms is affecting her. _It doesn't matter anyway,_   _does it?_ _It doesn't change what you did._ _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._  She swallows, choking back the pain in her throat as she forces herself to remember exactly why they're in this hotel room, to remember exactly what he did to her.

There it is.

The rage. It swirls around her heart and makes it impenetrable. Hard. Impervious.

Safe.

"Are you okay to walk or do you want me to carry you?” he asks, reaching around her to turn off the shower. 

Her response leaves no doubt about her state of mind—at least in relation to him. Her tone is cold, clipped and unmistakably harsh. “I can walk."

_What did I do? Why are you angry?_

But he doesn't dare ask. And so, with one hand still clutching her waist, he reaches out to tug a bathrobe off the hook and drapes it over her shoulders. When they step out of the tub he grabs a towel from the rack and starts drying her hair. It's that one simple gesture, that tiny, insignificant move that brings all her emotions to the surface. How many times has he dried her hair? Dozens? Hundreds? The weight of everything she's lost—him, them, her sense of self—is suddenly so oppressive she can't keep it inside for one second longer.

She bursts into tears.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Will exclaims. "Jesus, did I pull your hair!?" 

"No," she sobs, shaking her head. "No. It just hurts, Will. It _hurts._ "

"What hurts? You're in pain?" Frightened, he starts feeling her forehead, trying to figure out what the fuck just happened, why she's suddenly, inexplicably come unglued. "Let's get you back into bed and I'll call Roger. Put your hand here while I—"

"No," she cries. "I'm alright. It just—it just—" A great, heaving sob wracks her body and he stares at her, absolutely panicked. 

"What? It just what?"

"It hurts so much to _be_ with you! _"_

"Why?" he says, horrified.

"Because I can't stop thinking about the way it used to be," she sobs. "And how much I _loved_ you. And I don't know what to _do!_ " 

He stares at her, aghast.  _God almighty, I fucked up. I destroyed her._

But he can't think about that right now. The only thing he can afford to think about is getting her through this, so he steps in front of her, keeping one hand firmly on her waist as he uses one finger to lift her chin up. He stares into her eyes. "Sweetheart, sweetheart. Look at me." She lifts her gaze to his and the pain he sees in those beautiful hazel eyes makes him sick to his stomach. "I know we have a lot of shit to work through but you don't need to decide anything today. Take your time. The only thing you need to worry about right now is getting well. I'll take care of the rest." She gazes up at him, looking so lost and tired and unwell that his heart thuds wildly in his chest. "Everything's going to be alright, honey. I promise. Just rest."

She nods and takes a shaky breath, sniffling. "We should check on Henry."

He doesn't respond, starts to open his mouth to say something but what can he say? Nothing.  _I did this. It's all my fault._

"Yeah. Okay," he says, defeated. Close to tears himself, he motions for her to hold onto the counter while he takes off his clothes and throws them in the shower, then escorts her back to bed. Henry has just awakened so he walks to the closet and shrugs into a robe before walking back to the crib. 

“Hey, buddy," he says, his voice subdued as he carefully lifts the baby out of the crib and brings him to his chest. He's mesmerized when he peers down into Henry's face: first, by the fact that this tiny, helpless person belongs to him and two, that he looks so much like MacKenzie. He's a father. He can't believe it. He vows then and there that for the rest of his life he'll do whatever it takes to protect this child and his mother from harm.

_Even from you?_

He glances at MacKenzie.

 _Yes. Even from me._ Which means he has to be willing to let her go if she decides that's what's best for her. _But it can't be, can it? There's still a chance ..._ He won't think about that now.

He forces himself to speak jovially, not wanting the fucked-up relationship between the kid's parents to seep into Henry's consciousness. "Did you have a good dream? It sure looked like it. Let's get you changed and Mummy can give you breakfast."

He goes to the makeshift change table and sets to work. The silence between him and MacKenzie soon becomes insupportable, so he tries to speak casually, hoping to lead them into a space where every utterance _isn't_ fraught, where they can have something approximating a normal conversation. He keeps his tone light and measured as he speaks to her over his shoulder. "Promise me you won’t get out of bed today unless the nurse or nanny is nearby, okay?” He can't have her cracking her head open when he's not here. 

“Will—”

“MacKenzie, please. You could fall. There’s no shame in being sick."

He has no doubt she's about to contradict him but is saved when he sees a text flash on his phone next to the change table. "Just a second," he tells her. "I just got a text from Roger."

It seems Roger, ever the miracle-worker, has gotten MacKenzie an appointment with his OB-GYN-girlfriend the day after tomorrow. _She_ _should be feeling well enough to make it to Rachel's office by then_.  _How are they doing?_

Will quickly taps out a reply, one hand firmly on Henry's waist. _Henry's better, Mac's worse—dizzy. Emotional._  Thinking better of it, he quickly backspaces over the last word and types _Tell Rachel thanks._

They've got one appointment lined up but that doesn't mean he can't canvas his network for second and third opinions. Rachel seems competent enough, and apparently graduated at the top of her class, but he hasn't checked med school rankings in a while. She could be a hack. _Roger wouldn't date a hack_ , he thinks. _Roger wouldn't KNOWINGLY date a hack_ , his mind counters. _  
_

He hits Send and finishes dressing Henry in a fresh onesie before turning around to face MacKenzie. "Roger told me last night he doesn't think it's normal for you to be so dizzy this far out, so while you’re here, would you mind seeing his girlfriend? She's an OB-GYN and one of her research areas is postnatal maternal complications. He got you an appointment on Thursday.”

“Will—”

He hands the baby to MacKenzie and she settles him on her lap.

“Mac, I realize “No” is your default response to anything I might say these days, so can you pretend the suggestion came from someone you actually like and respect and _then_ give me your answer?”

She bristles. “My behavior over the last several hours would indicate that I _don’t_ dislike you, Will.”

“Oh, yeah?" he says, sitting back down in the desk chair. "Define ‘several.’”

She doesn't immediately answer.

 _You may be an ass, but you're a perceptive ass._  “Fair enough. Since you got into bed with me.”

He watches as she helps the baby latch onto her breast and when the silence stretches between them he decides to voice his question. "Would you mind giving me a hint as to where we are now? Are we back to where we were before I got into bed with you or have we made some progress?”

_Shit. Didn't I tell her not twenty minutes ago that she didn't have to decide anything today? What the hell is wrong with me?_

She glances up at him, her expression instantly on guard. “Towards what? Reconciliation?” 

Apparently, he's constitutionally unable keep his trap shut (or play it cool), so he answers her honestly. “Yes." 

She looks at him with narrowed eyes. “You have no business making demands on me, Will. You’re the one who ruined it.”

She leans her head against the headboard and closes her eyes.

“I know that," she hears him say. "And it seems I’m the only one who wants to fix it.” 

He's tempted to clap his hand over his mouth. _Christ, I need a muzzle. Get it together!_

Her eyes fly open. “So you think you can just destroy something on a whim, change your mind and that should be good enough for me? You've made your decree so I should just fall in line—like metal filings on a magnet?”

“Of course not. But this isn’t going to work if I’m the only one who wants to put us back together.”

He's beginning to wonder if he has a screw loose. _Must stop talking. Must stop TALKING._

Her eyes flash. “I don’t think you fully appreciate what you did to me, Will," she says through clenched teeth. "It looks easy from your end. You kicked me out, decided you’d made a mistake and now you want me back. Easy. But that’s _not_ the way it was for me."

"Then  _tell_ me how it was for you," he exclaims. "I can't build the bridge unless I know where you are."

 _What are you DOING?!_ Will thinks. _She's got a temperature of 103, she's emotionally fragile, and you think NOW's a good time to badger her about the status of your relationship? Pull yourself together, man!_

She opens her mouth to speak but he stops her. "Look. I'm sorry. I know you're not feeling well, so maybe we should table this discussion until tomorrow or whenever you're feeling better."

He's relieved to discover he _can_ learn from his mistakes. _There. That wasn't so hard, was it? That's what a normal, non-deranged person would say under the circumstances. Keep doing that._

She looks down at Henry's perfect little face and tries to master her emotions.  _No. You don't understand, so I am going to MAKE you understand_.

When she looks up at Will her body is as tense as the string of a bow just before an arrow is sent on its deadly path.

"No. I want to tell you."

_Oh, Jesus. Why the hell did I have to ask?!  
_

"Here's how it is: there’s now and Before _,"_ she tells him. "Before, I was like an innocent puppy who loved her master and didn’t know she should fear him. I’d trail along behind you, basking in your affection, happily going wherever you led. And then one night, out of the blue, you kicked me, broke my ribs and locked me outside in the rain. And you left me there for _ten months_."

She stares at him, outraged all over again. "I never saw you, you didn’t feed me, and I had to scrounge for scraps to survive. But last night you changed your mind. You decided to let me back in the house. I don’t know why you did it any more than I know why you kicked me out in the first place. And part of me is happy to be back in the house, but I don’t trust you. Because I don’t know what I might accidentally do to make you put me outside again. So, when I look at you, I still see the man I loved. But I don’t feel safe with you and I don’t trust you. Because I can’t predict what you’re going to do. And that’s just the way it is. There’s nothing you can say or do to change what’s happened. I don’t know how to forget being kicked. Or how to stop being afraid you’ll do it again.”

He’s flattened by the weight of her words. That’s exactly what he did to her. Blithely kicked her to the curb and went on his merry way until he changed his mind. What can he possibly do to make it up to her?

He wipes his hand tiredly across his forehead. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

"Are you? Because you're acting as if you think I should _just get over it_."

"That's not what I think but I'm sorry if that's the way I've been acting."

At that moment breakfast arrives. "Maybe we should talk about this later," he says and she nods her assent. He brings breakfast into the room, helps her to the table, pulls out her chair and she sits down. It's been so long since she shared a meal with him she feels as if she's in a dream.

They toy with their food until the silence once again becomes insupportable. “You’ve lost weight,” she says, desperate to think of something innocuous to say. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally.

“What’s going on?”

He's in no mood to reveal the truth. In her current frame of mind, she'll just use it as a weapon: either she'll call him a liar or use it as an excuse to remind him that he fucked up. “Nothing.”

“Are you on a diet?”

“No.”

“Then what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I'm fine." 

Worry grips her. “Have you seen a doctor? You don’t just lose that much weight without a reason.”

He sighs. Although gratified by the concern in her voice he doesn't dare elaborate. “Nothing’s wrong," he says, glancing up at her. "I just haven’t been hungry.”

“Why?”

_Why are you pushing me? Oh, right: because your name is MACKENZIE. Of course._

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

He doesn’t doubt her response but decides to venture an explanation, anyway. Maybe she'll surprise him. “Fine. I’ve been … depressed.”

“Why?”

He hesitates, tired of her newfound propensity to interpret everything he says in the worst way possible, but then he reminds himself that he did this and he deserves everything he gets. He sighs and once again looks up at her, his expression soft and sincere. “Because I’ve missed you.”

She looks at him incredulously and he rolls his eyes. "Here it comes," he snorts.

She ignores him. “Your weight loss is down to me?”

“Yes.”

Now _that_ pisses her off.

“I don’t understand, Will. It was your _choice_.”

He sighs, trying, _trying_ not to get pissed off. “I know. But … it’s been ….”

“What?”

“Difficult. Nothing compared to what you’ve been through, of course—” he hastens to add, “but … I’ve just—I've missed you, okay? I'm not trying to pull the wool over your eyes, this isn't some nefarious plot to try to trick you into loving me again ... I've just _missed_ you. It's the truth.” The weight of everything that hangs in the balance makes his eyes grow moist. “Every second of every day. Every night. I dream about you all the time. I haven’t been able to sleep. I think last night was the first night I’ve slept in months.”

She shakes her head, dumbfounded. “I don’t understand. If that's the way you felt, why didn't you come after me?"

"Because I’d convinced myself you didn’t love me. That you never loved me. That everything we had was a lie.”

“God, you’re an  _imbecile_ ," she says angrily. "It wasn’t. Not on my end, anyway.”

“Nor mine.”

“What a waste.” She looks down at her plate. 

They're both silent until he decides to break it.

"And I did come after you, by the way," he says and her eyes jerk up. "A month ago. That's when I saw you with Pete."

She looks at him, bewildered. "Where?"

"Outside the apartment. It was a Friday night. You were dressed up. He was in a tux."

"The night of the Metropolitan Opera gala. Where were you? Why didn't I see you?"

"I was around the side of the building. You know—where Mr. Thornton keeps his gardening tools?"

"You were there," she says, her eyes filling with tears. "I can't believe it. Why didn't you say something?"

"I saw him kiss you and I thought you'd moved on."

"That was our first and last kiss."

"I'm glad."

She doesn't respond. He'd been there. He'd seen Pete kiss her. She can only imagine what that had done to him because she can only imagine what it would have done to her if the roles had been reversed.

_Good._

_Good_.

Her eyes lock onto his and she's compelled to ask the question that's been plaguing her since last night. "Why _did_ you change your mind, Will? Why am I suddenly back in your good graces?"

“It was something Roger told me."

"Roger?"

"Yeah." He leans forward and looks at her earnestly. "For the first eight months, I was living in an echo chamber. Like I said, I kept telling myself you never loved me, that it had all been a lie. I didn’t talk to anyone who could contradict that, anyone who knew me or who knew us. I was completely isolated. But when Roger moved here two months ago I had dinner with him and he told me you  _did_  love me, and that anyone in your position would have figured I was involved with other people, and that I was a total fucking moron for doing what I did.”

“ _Two_  months ago. Yet you only came to DC last month. Why did it take so long?”

“Because I wanted to be worthy of crawling on my hands and knees to you and begging your forgiveness.”

“And you’re worthy now? How do you figure?”

“I've been in therapy. Trying to figure out what happened—why I did it, and what I can do to prevent it from happening again. I know what to do now, Mac. It will never happen again. I swear it."

 _Therapy? You've been in therapy?!_ And just like that, she can feel the walls around her heart start to crumble. _You're actually serious about reform._

“So, why did you do it, then?”

“Apparently shitty childhoods produce shitty coping mechanisms. When you told me what happened with your ex I felt betrayed. So, I reacted the same way I have always reacted to betrayal. I shut down and I cut you off. I’m sorry. It wasn’t a conscious choice—it’s a habit. A lifelong, ingrained habit.”

It takes her a moment to respond. She takes a sip of her juice and looks at him.

“Which is the real you, Will? The man you’ve been since you arrived at this hotel or the one who abandoned me?”

His eyes jerk up from his plate and he looks at her steadily. “They’re both me. But I swear to God, you’ll never see the one who abandoned you again. If I can promise you that I will never hurt you again—at least not in that way—will you give me another chance?" He reaches across the table and takes her hand. She doesn't resist but her hand lays limply in his palm. He curls his fingers around it and raises it to his lips. "If you’re willing, I’d like to pick up where we left off. Hit the reset button and pretend everything that happened after we got engaged never happened. I want to marry you and raise Henry together.”

She pulls her hand away. “I know you don’t want me to take Henry to the UK, but that’s no reason to marry,” she says.

“You think that’s why I want to?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. I _love_ you," he says hoarsely. "And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

And then she’s so angry she could punch him. “You’re so full of shit, Will!” she says, slamming her hand down on the table. She stands up, walks to his side of the table, grabs the baby and stalks to the other end of the room—which isn’t very far away given the room’s dimensions. “If you’d wanted to marry me you would have. If you’d wanted to  _be_  with me, you would have. But you didn’t because you _don’t._ ”

She stares daggers at him. “I gave you my word, so we won’t leave for another seven days, but after that, we’re going home. I’m sorry I muddied things with sex last night, but you should forget it ever happened because it didn’t change anything. Everything I told you last night still holds. You can contact my attorney regarding custody arrangements.”

She has no idea why she’s lashing out at him except that her life has been thrown into a whirlwind, tumbled madly here and there until she only recognizes bits and pieces of who she is and who she's been. There’s nothing solid, nothing to hold onto. _And it’s all his fault._ She’d been so certain of him. So certain of _everything_ before he broke her heart. She was carefree. _Happy_. Sure of herself and what she could bring to the world. Now she’s nothing but a hollow shell: broken, fearful and uncertain. She hates it. And she thinks maybe she hates him.

He throws his napkin on the table, gets up and stalks over to where she’s standing. “Forget it. We are not getting the lawyers involved. This is between you and me. And, despite what you may believe, I  _do_  want to be with you, and I  _do_  want to marry you. I’ve been a complete ass but I had my reasons for doing what I did. It turns out they were stupid, but I had them.”

He reaches for her hand. “What I did had nothing to do with how I felt about you—how I  _feel_ about you, MacKenzie. It had to do with what was going on in my head. I’m so sorry. I’ll never be able to atone for what I did but I will spend the rest of my life trying. If you’ll let me.”

“Go to hell.” She doesn’t know why she’s so angry at this moment. It’s not as if she thinks he’s lying to her. It’s only that she is so conflicted it feels as if sharp knives are rending her insides and she has no idea what the fuck she’s supposed to _do_.

“Goddammit, Mac, stop it,” he says, putting his hands on her shoulders. “I know what I did to you. But I also know we belong together.” She’s silent, unable to find the words just now to deny it as much as she wants to.

“Look,” he says, taking her silence as tacit approval. “I get it: you’re going to make me pay for my sins and I’ll do that. Happily. Cheerfully. Gladly. For as long as it takes. But don’t make me do it away from you or away from him. Please."

“And what exactly are you proposing I do instead?”

“I just told you,” he says in exasperation. “Marry me. Or, if you’re not ready to do that, we can live together, or ... I’ll buy an apartment for you. There’s one for sale on the seventeenth floor. When you’re ready to go back to work you can come to ACN. Ralph’s retiring in six months and we’re interviewing EPs now. You say the word and Charlie will contact your agent. He still wants you. He intimated as much last night.”

She gazes at him with newfound understanding. The unmitigated _gall_ of the man. She’s seen his ratings. They’d been steadily climbing for months until Ralph started driving viewers away with his penchant for booking guests from the fringe to match his heretofore unknown obsession with the dark web. “I’ve seen your ratings. That’s the reason behind your sudden change of heart, isn’t it? Because you want me as your EP.”

“ _No,_ ” he says indignantly. “I don’t give two fucks what you do for work. I want you as my wife.”

“So, you say. I’m surprised you’d want to marry a whore.”

“You’re not—Jesus. I didn’t mean that.”

“You meant it. For as long as I live, I’ll never forget the look in your eyes when you said it."

“I didn’t—that wasn’t my adult self—that was the ten-year-old in me who figured the easiest way to get rid of you was to decimate you.”

“You succeeded.”

“I know. But I didn’t mean it.” He sighs. "Listen, if you don’t want to be my EP, that’s fine. It’s not important. I just want you back.” And then a thought occurs to him: if she has to move to London, maybe he does, too. “But if you insist on moving to London, I’ll come with you. ACN has a bureau there, so maybe I can get a transfer. If not, I’ll find something else.”

_Will. In London. He’d do that. Of course, he’d do that for Henry. But for me?_

“You’ll come with me,” she parrots, unable to hide the derision in her voice. “Uninvited. Un … _welcome_.”

He bristles. “I don’t need your permission to immigrate to the UK. All I need is the ability to support myself.” As he thinks about it, that’s really the only choice. No matter what happens between them, he’ll go wherever she goes because she’s taking their child with her.

She looks at him. “So, what you’re saying is you’re going to be my shadow. Whether I like it or not.”

“It’s like you said. We’re inextricably linked. I’m going wherever you go.”

“And I’m just supposed to put up with you. You destroyed my life but you get off scot-free. How is that fair?”

“It isn’t. But since we can’t turn back the clock you can either listen to your pain which is telling you to tell me to fuck off, or you can acknowledge it and work through it but not give it the power to make the decision for you.”

“And who—or what—gets that honor?”

“Your heart and your head.”

“And why do you assume either one of them will decide in your favor?”

He sighs, exasperated. “Look at the way this is going to play out if you let your pain and pride decide for you, Mac. You’re going to end up with someone like Pete—someone who doesn’t suit you nearly as well as I do, and you and I will hover at the periphery of each other’s lives, full of regret and bitterness because we couldn’t get our shit together. But if you work through it with me, if I agree to take whatever punishment you dish out for as long as you need to dish it out, if we go to therapy and agree to do whatever the fuck it takes to put the wheels back on this thing, you’ll end up with me, someone who suits you perfectly.”

“I’ll say it again. Your ego knows no bounds.”

“That’s your wounded pride talking. I speak only the truth and you know it. If I’ve learned anything these last few months, it’s that trying to avoid the pain makes everything worse. Feel it—but don’t let it blind you to the end game. What it is that you really want.”

“Which is you, I take it?”

He nods. “And Henry. And a life of love and laughter and joy, which is what we had together. Plus, if you come to ACN, you get a show with seven times the audience Fred has. Think of what you could do here, Mac.”

“At the bargain-basement price of my self-respect.”

He stares at her. “There’s a quote. I don’t know who said it, but I think it’s true. It goes something like, _every_ _great mistake has a halfway moment, a split second when it can be recalled and possibly remedied_. This is that moment, Mac.”

“No, Will. That moment was in September. Right before you threw me out. The mistake was made. The damage was done.”

“I know. But forgiving me isn’t condoning what I did. It’s recognizing that there’s more to our relationship than what happened that day. We were happy together. _Happy_. And we can be again.”

She wavers. If she gives him up, if she turns down the _other_ fork in her road, will she always regret it? She suspects she knows the answer.

“Look at it this way,” he tells her. “If you stay here, and you’re not ready to get back together yet, you can come to ACN and stick it to me every day: you’ll be in my ear, but not in my bed.”

She sighs. As much as she _would_ like to stick it to Will, Henry’s well-being has to be her first consideration. Which means they should all live in the same city. But how is she supposed to get from here to the emotional state where that would be a possibility?

“How can I trust you, Will? You erased me from your life. How do I know you won’t do it again?”

“Give me a chance to prove it to you. It’ll take some time, but I will. Stay here. Marry me.”

“I can’t.”

“What about last night? You let me make love to you. What did that mean?”

“I wanted to feel better. And you were there.”

He stiffens. “So,” he says, his jaw tight. “I could have been anyone. Even Pete.”

She shakes her head. “No. Not Pete. And not anyone. It was you I wanted,” she admits.

“Why?”

She looks at him helplessly. “Because I can’t forget how much I loved you.”

“ _’Loved.’_ Past tense.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know how I feel about you now, Will. It’s such a muddle. And I can feel no other way unless you have a time machine that lets you go back and change what happened.”

“I could not be sorrier for what I did. But I don’t have a time machine. I can’t take it back. All I can do is promise that I will never do it again and do whatever it takes to ensure that I am able to fulfill that promise. Which I will do. So, you can either work with me to repair what we have, live your life on your own, or you can find someone else. What’s it going to be?”

“Why do I have to decide now?”

“Because you’re moving to London.”

“If I choose to believe you and you do it again ...”

“I _won’t_. We can fix this. As long as we still love each other. And I _do_. Do you still love me?”

“I do,” she says, though loath to admit it. “But I hate you more.” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, and she rejoices at the wounded look on his face. Then,  _Why can’t I stop trying to hurt this man?_  

She sighs. She’s had it. She’s through dissembling. Prevaricating. It’s exhausting.

“That was a lie. To be perfectly honest, Will, I love and hate you in equal measure.” She watches as he presses his lips together in a thin line, pain evident in his features. “No. That’s not true, either. I love you more. But I’m ashamed of that love now. Because it means I’m a sucker who has no self-respect. Let’s say we get back together. What do I do with all that anger? Do you give me a free pass and let me say horrible things to you? How many horrible things do I get to say to even the scales? And what damage will it do to you and to Henry and to _us_ in the meantime? I don’t think you have any idea how badly I want to hurt you, Will. I can’t imagine I’ll ever be able to get back to purely loving you again.”

He shakes his head, unwilling to give in to her doubts. “Poison requires an antidote, Mac. Not more poison. A therapist can help us figure it out. We just have to decide that it’s worth it.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do.” He looks at her steadily. “We should talk about what happened last night. Are you on any kind of birth control?”

She shakes her head.

“So, you might be pregnant.”

“I suppose.”

“Where are you in your cycle?”

“Halfway through.”

“So, there’s a chance.”

“Yes.” She sighs. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I’ll decide what to do if I need to.”

“What’s to decide? If you’re pregnant, you’re having the baby. The only question is whether you’ll allow me to be more than a weekend father to it or Henry.”

“There are other options besides having it, Will.”

“Like what? Abortion? Adoption?”

“Yes.”

“ _No_ ,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “That baby—if there is one—is just as much mine as it is yours, and you are not killing it or giving it away. If you don't want it, I'll raise it."

"Will, we don’t even know if I’m pregnant, okay?”

“Promise me that if you are, you won’t have an abortion or give it up for adoption.”

“Will—“

“ _Promise_  me."

She sighs. “Okay,” she relents.

His expression softens. “Listen,” he says, taking her hand. “No matter what happens between us, Mac, I’m here for you—emotionally, physically, financially, in whatever way you’ll allow me to be—I am here. Tell me what you need in terms of child support and alimony or whatever they call it these days and I’ll give it to you.”

She can feel herself wavering. But how can she respect herself if she gives in? Then again, what price self-respect?  _There’s a fine line between self-preservation and mummification_ , her mind counters. If she gives in, she doesn’t have to be a single mother. If she gives in, she  _might_  be able to have what she wants, which is the man she loves. But how the fuck is she supposed to trust him? It’s all too much to contemplate right now.

“You need to get ready for your interview and Henry and I need to go back to bed.”

“Okay,” he relents. “Can we talk when you’re feeling better?”

She nods tiredly. “I’ll be ready to listen if you’re ready to explain how you’re going to prevent it from happening again. But I’m warning you, Will: you have one shot at this, and you’ve got a huge hill to climb. I can’t even begin to imagine what it would take for you to convince me you can be trusted. Think carefully before you begin.”

“I will. Thank you.”

They stare at each other, an uneasy truce between them. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting the final three chapters today. The last one's a bit hasty but I'm afraid it can't be helped. Thanks for reading!

Will tidies up a bit as MacKenzie frets at the prospect of spending a day in the care of two strangers. She looks at her watch and sees that it’s 7:50. _Too late to call it off now. Crikey._ She tries to console herself by reminding herself of the times she's survived similar situations: like meeting her new roommates at university. Or the week she'd spent bunking with two other female reporters in Cambodia. Strangers at first, they'd ended up becoming comrades with whom she still kept in touch.  _But I was healthy then. Full of life instead of vitriol. What am I going to do with these people???_

She decides to turn it against Will.

_What was I thinking? Why do I ALWAYS let him talk me into doing what he wants?_

She knows she’s about to be unreasonable and irrational but she doesn’t care. Everything that’s wrong in her life is his fault. Except the flu. And if she could find a way to blame that on him, she would.

Will smooths the duvet over the bed and is just about to clear off the side table when he sees MacKenzie grab a pillow off the floor. He looks at her quizzically.  _Didn't you just tell ME to make the bed?_  And then she pelts it at him. It sails across the room and hits him squarely on the chest.

He grabs it, throws it down on the bed and puts his hands on his hips. "Hey! What did I do now?" 

She stares at him with narrowed eyes. "You  _manipulated_  me, Will. As usual. You knew I couldn't let you sabotage your career and now I have to spend an entire day and evening sandwiched between two strangers in a room the size of a postage stamp!”

 _You’re the one who insisted I do this interview, so what the hell is your problem? If I had my way, we’d be spending the day at my place watching a Jets game._ Of course, he does not say that. He is no longer allowed to say such things because he is no longer allowed to have an opinion. On anything.

"You won’t all be stuck in here. I booked the room next door,” he says slowly, evenly, trying to maintain a grip on his temper. “They can take Henry in there if he starts crying.”

 _Thank God. At least we won’t all be lying on top of one another._ The thought gives her pause. Stops her, momentarily. But only momentarily.

" _When_ he starts crying. He's going to think I abandoned him if I let a stranger cart him off. And it's all your fault, Will. Every last bit of it!” And he knows she’s not just talking about spending the day with two strangers.

“Is there anything that isn’t my fault?”

She shakes her head. “In relation to me? No _._ I don’t think so.”

He walks to where she’s standing and puts his hands on her shoulders. “You can keep him with you when you’re not sleeping. Besides, she’s a _nanny_ for Christ’s sake. She knows how to make kids comfortable. And even if he is upset, it will just be for a little while. He’ll survive.”

"Easy for you to say. You just met him."

He looks into her startlingly white face and closed-off, burning eyes and is momentarily silenced by a memory of how she _used_ to look at him—openly, with affection. The eyes are outwardly the same—strange and beautiful, green and brown, with long black lashes—but they’re set in a face that is now impenetrable. He no longer knows by any sign on it what she feels for him except disdain. There are hints at something more, yes—certainly in the way she looks when she responds to him physically—but there’s no warmth there. He wants those clear, intelligent, seer's eyes to gaze at him with the affection they once did. But he can’t express his sense of loss over that; he’s allowed only to address what’s going on at the surface. So, that’s what he does.

"He just has to put up with it until after the show. We can go back to my apartment tonight and I’ll take care of him tomorrow.”

“That’s hardly comforting, Will. You’re a stranger to him, too.”

_So that’s where we are. Firmly in the “Will can’t do anything right” phase of the program. Fine._

“I won’t be a stranger for long. Look, I know this situation’s not ideal. I know you’re pissed at me and worried about Henry and a bunch of other things but it’s just temporary. You’ll get through it and so will he and everything will be fine. We’ll deal with the rest later.”

“I can’t—”

“What you mean is that you won’t.” He steps closer to her. “Why are you really angry, Mac? Aside from the obvious? What was I doing that set you off? And don’t start rhyming off what I did in the past. What was I doing _now_ that set you off?”

“Breathing.”

He rolls his eyes but his lips quirk into a smile and he steps still closer to her. She looks at him, her chin raised, her expression defiant as her lips part. Magnet that she is, he has no choice but to lean in still closer to gently press his lips against hers.

“What are you—”

“Shhh,” he tells her, cupping her face in his hands. He pulls back to stare into her wide eyes and then he dips his head again, caressing her lips with kisses that are so slow, so deliberate and so tantalizing that she doesn’t resist. She couldn’t—even if she wanted to—because she loves him and she loves what he makes her feel. “ _This_ is what’s real, Mac,” he whispers. “ _This_. Everything else is just noise, okay?” She parts her lips to protest but is unable to stifle a moan when he surprises her by gently probing her mouth with his tongue. So, she closes her eyes and lets herself enjoy the exquisite sensation of his kisses—so soft and oh-so-gentle—like rain. His most casual kisses can shake her to the core. And it’s not only her body that’s stirred. It’s her heart and soul and intellect and emotion. Every part of her hums with life when he’s kissing her. Clutching the baby in one hand, she uses the other to put her palm on the back of Will’s head, desperate to bring him closer.

When she finally breaks the kiss, he pulls back to look at her, gratified by her response. “We love each other, Mac. We do. So, can we please just cut the bullshit and get on with it?”

“You’re not playing fair, Billy,” she says, looking at him with suddenly moist eyes. “You know I can’t resist you—you want what you want but there’s a price to be paid. And I’m the one who’s going to have to pay it.”

He is immediately ashamed. She’s right. She’s been crippled by the misery he’s visited upon her. He knows now her eyes are wide open and that there are certain things she will never again believe. There’s a kind of white, criminal fervor in her anger, as if she feels neither remorse nor sorrow. As if she has no choice to do anything but live it out. And that’s his fault.

Besides, why the hell is he being so impatient? She showed up ten hours ago. Does he really expect her to forgive him for breaking her heart in ten hours? Ten years is more like it. The problem is that he’s desperate to know her decision—so impatient he feels as if he might burst out of his skin with the waiting. When will she decide? _What_ will she decide? Every moment is agony. Waiting, waiting. But he has no right to put that on her.  

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't push you.”

“Yet you keep doing it.”

“I know.”

There’s a knock on the door and Will looks at her. “I’m sorry,” he says again and kisses her gently on the lips once more. She nods and he goes to answer the door, surprised to see Charlie standing there, clutching a breast pump. Nancy is beside him, clutching four bottles. They’re flanked by two women.

Charlie hands Will the breast pump.

“I don’t know how to use this. Presumably one of these fine ladies do,” he says, gesturing to the starstruck women behind him, who are staring at Will.

“You didn’t have to come, Charlie, but thank you,” Will says.

“’Course I did,” Charlie replies. “Had to make sure you made it to work,” he says, winking at Will.

“How’d you get up here without a pass?” Will asks.

“I have my ways,” Charlie says, smirking.

Will greets Nancy and steps aside so they can all enter the room but MacKenzie stops them. “Wait. Have all of you had the flu shot? I’d hate for any of you to become ill on our account.”

“Charlie and I both have,” Nancy says, and the two women confirm they have as well.

“Well, then, please come in.”

“Hello, MacKenzie,” Charlie says gently. “It’s good to see you again. And congratulations on the baby. I’m sorry neither of you are feeling well, but hopefully, Emma, here, who’s a registered nurse, will make sure you have everything you need to feel better.” And then he starts rhyming off each woman’s credentials. “Emma spent the first half her career as a neonatal nurse and the second half as a Family Nurse Practitioner. Sarah here is an infant care specialist with ten years’ experience …”

When Charlie finishes his spiel Nancy heads toward MacKenzie. “Hello, MacKenzie,” she says warmly, “How are you feeling this morning?”

“A little better, thank you,” she lies.

Will looks at her with concern. _Oh no, you don’t. No way are you going to spend the day minimizing what you feel._

"She’s lying,” he says. MacKenzie’s eyes widen and she stares at him, outraged. “She feels like crap.”

MacKenzie has opened her mouth—no doubt to lash out at him—but he cuts her off. “Mac, we have a bonafide medical professional in our midst. I’m sure she knows more than we do about whatever ails you, but she’s not going to be able to help you if you minimize your symptoms. So please, stop trying to be brave and be _honest_.”

“I am—”

“You’re not.” He turns to Emma. “Fine. I’ll tell you, in case she won’t. She’s dizzy. She almost keeled over last night and again this morning in the shower and while she was getting out of bed. Her doctor says it’s related to the pregnancy and that she should be back to normal by Christmas, but my doctor doesn’t think it’s normal, so she’s got an appointment with an OB-GYN on Thursday for a second opinion. In any case, I don’t want her getting out of bed or walking across the room without either one of you nearby.”

“Will, you’re being—”

“Paternalistic, I know. And I’m sure you’ll give me hell for it later. But you’re not well, MacKenzie. And you’re not going to get that way by being a martyr. Promise me you won’t get out of bed or walk across the room by yourself.”

“Will—”

“ _Promise_ me.”

“Fine.”

He puts the key to the room next door on the dresser. “I booked the room next door so Sarah would have a place to care for the baby while Mac is sleeping.”

They all stand there awkwardly for a moment until Nancy tries to break the tension in the room by addressing MacKenzie. “May I see the baby?”

“Of course,” she says, turning Henry around so Nancy can see his face.

“A boy?” She says, noting the blue onesie. MacKenzie nods. “Henry.”

“Oh, he’s beautiful. He looks just like you, but I can see a great deal of Will in there, too.”

“I think so, too,” MacKenzie says, looking a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of trying to find something for both of these women to do. Nancy seems to sense what’s on her mind. “I can help Emma and Sarah get set up in the next room while you and the baby rest if you like.”

MacKenzie looks at her gratefully. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“If you’re not asleep when we’re finished, Sarah can show you how to use the breast pump and we can see if the baby will take a bottle while you get some sleep. When do you and Henry need to take your next doses of medication?”

“Henry’s due at 8:15 and Mac’s due at 8:30,” Will tells her.

Nancy looks approvingly at Will. Although shocked by what Charlie had said when he repeated what Will told him last night, she can feel Will’s sincerity. When MacKenzie looks at Will, Nancy can sense the tension between them—from MacKenzie, anyway. Will just looks lost.

“Why don’t you boys run along? We’ve got it handled.” Nancy tells them.

“I—” Will says, reluctant to leave.

“We’ll be fine, Will,” MacKenzie tells him. “Good luck with the interview.” Instinctively, automatically, she asks, “How are you going to—” Then she stops. It’s not her place, and it’s not her business.

“What?” Will asks. “What were you going to say?”

“How are you going to bring up the drone story?”

She’s referring to a recent report claiming President Obama ordered a drone strike against an American citizen suspected of being an Al-Qaeda operative in Yemen. The Oval Office denied the report, but off the record, a couple of MacKenzie’s contacts had confirmed the report was accurate. None of the major news networks have touched the story.

“What are you talking about?” Will asks her. “That story was a red herring.”

“Who told you that?”

“Evan. Our fact-checker.”

“Well, you need to send him back to fact-checking school. That report was on the money.” Then something occurs to her. “Does Evan work for ACN?”

“No,” Charlie answers. “He works for FactCheckers.com.”

“You outsourced your fact-checking department?”

“Well, we—” Charlie stops.

MacKenzie turns to Will. “Don’t you ever wonder why you and all the other networks have the same spin on everything? It’s because you share the same fact-checking company. Christ, Will. No wonder  _News Night_ looks like every other piece of trash on the air.”

Charlie raises his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry, Charlie,” she says, rubbing her hands tiredly across her eyes. “I seem to have misplaced my filter this morning. It’s just infuriating, is all. Unlike CBN, where Will and I come from, ACN has all the resources in the world, and you decide to cut corners in places you can least afford to cut them.”

She turns back to Will. “Lena. Lena will give it to you straight.”

“Lena’s not going to give me shit, Mac. Well, she will, but not the kind I need.”

“Who’s Lena?” Charlie says.

“One of the in-house fact-checkers at CBN,” Will tells him. “She knows everything and everyone. Deep state, dark web, the Bilderberg Group, you name it. She has contacts everywhere.”

“Do you want me to call her?” MacKenzie asks Will.

Charlie looks at Will. “Can she be trusted?”

“Her journalistic ethics are second only to Mac’s.” Will says.

He turns back to MacKenzie. “You sure you feel up for it? You’re still not well.”

“Yes,” she says, picking up the phone. “If it’ll keep you from toeing the party line.”

“Put her on speaker,” Charlie says. “I want to hear what she has to say.”

Lena picks up on the second ring.

“Lena, it’s MacKenzie.”

“MacKenzie! How are you?” Lena says delightedly. “We miss you like crazy. How’s the baby? How’s—“

“We’re fine, thanks,” she says abruptly. “Listen, I want to catch up with you, but now’s not a good time. I’m with Will and—”

The outraged intake of breath is audible to everyone in the room, and Will closes his eyes, waiting for the explosion.

“You did _not_ take him back, MacKenzie. Tell me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t,” MacKenzie says glancing at Will, who winces. “But he’s right here—”

“Thank God. I don’t think I could forgive you if you did.”

“… and you’re on speaker.”

Lena pauses. “Will’s listening? You just made my day. Are you there, Will?” she says loudly. “I’ve been waiting to give you a piece of my mind.”

“Can I take a raincheck on that?” Will says. “Listen—I’m interviewing the president tonight, and Mac thinks you know—”

“You think I’m going to help you? After what you did to her? You’re out of your mind.”

“Lena—” MacKenzie interjects.

“Stop trying to protect him, Mac! He doesn’t deserve it! You know something, Will? She  _loved_  you. And you fucked her over in the worst way possible.”

“Lena!” MacKenzie exclaims.

Lena ignores her. “I couldn’t believe it when she told me what you did. It’s like she was talking about somebody else. Not you. Not  _Will McAvoy._ ‘Cause  _Will McAvoy_  worshipped the ground she walked on.”

“I  _did_  worship—I  _do_  worship—” Will starts to say, then realizes it’s fucking pointless.  

“Guess we were all fooled. I don’t know how you can live with yourself.”

“Are you finished?” Will says.

“I’m just getting started.”

“Well, save it.” He turns to MacKenzie. “Mac, I told you she wouldn’t—”

MacKenzie holds her hand up to shush him. “Lena. I appreciate your vigorous defense of my person. I do. But we have bigger things to worry about. ACN’s fact-checker told them the drone story was a red herring. Which you and I both know is false.”

“Which drone story? The one where the president authorized an attack to kill an American citizen or the one where the majority of targets are neither members of Al-Qaeda nor involved in plots against the US?”

“The first one. I need you to give Will the names of the three people you know at State who will confirm the story. On the record.”

“That’s a pretty tall order, Mac. Why are you so sure I have that information?”

“Because I know you. And a little bird told me you did.”

“Who? I’ll kill ‘em.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Hey, wait a minute. ACN’s one of the networks that outsourced their fact-checking departments, right? They deserve what they get.”

“Lena,” Will butts in. “You should also know that Charlie Skinner, ACN’s news director, is in the room.”

“Sorry, Mr. Skinner. But you do. Deserve what you get. Remind me, though, Mac. Why are we helping a rival network? More importantly, why are we helping  _Will_?”

“Because it’s our patriotic duty,” MacKenzie tells her.

Lena groans. “You  _know_  I can’t resist you when you dangle that ‘patriotic’ crap in front of me.”

“That’s what I’m counting on. And if you need additional motivation, I can call in that favor you owe me.”

“What favor?”

“You know the one.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “I do. Give me twenty minutes to put it together. And this better not bite me in the ass.”

“It won’t. Fred already interviewed Biden and he let the opportunity slide right on by.”

“Well, that’s Fred for you. He’s no Will. And  _don’t_ let that go to your head, McAvoy. I still think you’re a dick.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Lena,” Will tells her.

“Don’t thank me. I’m doing it for her.”

“Understood.”

“Where should I send the names?” Lena asks.

“Email them to Will. His address is …” MacKenzie says, then pauses. “Oh, wait,” she says, embarrassed. “I don’t actually _have_  Will’s email address. A working one, anyway.” Her tone is cold and clipped.

“Jackass,” Lena mutters.

With a pained expression on his face, Will gives Lena the information. They hang up.

“Ladies,” Charlie says, addressing Emma and Sarah, who are standing there agog. “I’m sure you already know this, but let me remind you that under the terms of the confidentiality agreement you signed this morning you cannot repeat any part of what you just heard—including all the nice things the lady on the phone said about Will—to anyone.”

Emma and Sarah both nod.

“Can we trust Lena, Will?” Charlie asks. “She’s obviously got an axe to grind.”

“We can trust her,” he sighs. “She’s a straight arrow. She wouldn’t steer us wrong.” He looks at MacKenzie. “Mac—about my—I’m sorry. I—”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her tone dismissive. “You should go.”

“Mac—”

“There is nothing you can possibly say that will make this okay, Will, so don’t even try.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What did I just say?”

“Okay.” He gives in. She’s right. “I’ll call you later. No. I don’t want to wake you. Will you text me? Let me know how you both are?”

She looks at him.

“Oh,” he says in understanding.  _Fuck._ “Here. I’ll write it down.”

She accepts the piece of paper but remains silent.

God, he hates to leave her like this, with so much between them unresolved, with her so clearly against him. “Mac, I—” he has no idea what to say to her, or how he can possibly bridge the gap between them. “Can you come in the other room with me for a second?” he says, gesturing to the door behind her. “I just want to—please—just for a second. I’ll be back in a minute, Charlie. This won’t take long.”

MacKenzie follows him into the next room, and he closes the door behind them. He puts his hands on her shoulders and stares into her eyes.

“I know things are seriously fucked up between us right now. I know you don’t trust me. I know part of you probably hates me, and I know I keep saying I’m not going to push you, but can you please just give me a hint as to where your head is at? Is there at least a tiny part of you that wants to make this work?”

Reluctantly,  _very_  reluctantly, she acknowledges that there is. “Yes.”

He has no right to ask his next question, but he has to. Because he’s not going to be able to think about anything else unless he knows the answer.

“Do you think you might be able to love me again?”

She rolls her eyes and gives a hollow laugh. “I never stopped, Will. I feel exactly the same way I’ve felt about you since the moment I fell in love with you: completely besotted. And I hate myself for it. Because what you did nearly destroyed me.”

“I know. I  _know_. Listen. I’m going to go do this fucking interview, and you’re going to rest, and if you’re feeling up for it, we’ll talk when I get back. You’re still staying, right? You’re not going back to DC tonight?”

“No.”

He looks at her searchingly. “I love you, Mac. With all my heart. I do.”

“I used to believe that,” she says curtly. “You should go.”

He sighs.

She nods, and he leans in to kiss the baby on the forehead.

“Text me or call me. Please. Let me know how you’re both doing. I love you.”

She nods again.

They return to the room next door and when the door closes behind Will and Charlie MacKenzie sinks onto the bed. Nancy takes Emma and Sarah to set up in the next room and when they finish Nancy peeks in to find MacKenzie staring out the window, deep in thought.

“How are you feeling, MacKenzie? Can I get you anything?”

When MacKenzie turns around Nancy sees her eyes are moist. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just—oh, Nancy,” she says, hitting her fist on the bed in frustration. “I’m such a fool. And I don’t know how to stop being one.”

Nancy comes to sit beside her on the bed. “Why do you think you’re a fool?”

“Because even though I know we can never have what we once had I’m sitting here hoping— _praying_ —that when Will comes back tonight, he’ll be able to prove to me that I can trust him. What kind of self-respecting person would want that?”

“You were happy together. Of course, you want that back.”

“But it wasn’t real _._  It couldn’t have been. Or he could have never done what he did.”

“It’s none of my business, but what  _did_  he do? As devoted as he was to you the first time we met, I was shocked when Charlie told me you broke up.”

MacKenzie tells her the story and Nancy is even more shocked. “Has he told you exactly what he's going to do to prevent it from happening again?”

She shakes her head. “Tonight. He’s supposed to tell me tonight.”

“Hear him out. Give him a chance to convince you.”

“Why should I?”

“Because perhaps you can have what you want. For what it’s worth, I do think Will is sincere. I saw the two of you together when we had brunch that day—and I watched him this morning—and what you have is the real deal. Nothing will ever convince me that his devotion to you isn’t real.”

“He’s devoted to ensuring Henry doesn’t leave the country. I’m just part of the package.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She swallows, not knowing whether it’s the influenza virus or heartbreak that’s causing the pain in her throat. “I don’t know. If I let myself believe otherwise, I’m opening myself up to … “

“Being hurt again?”

She nods. “It’s such a mess. I was  _so_  in love with him, Nancy. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m still so in love with him. We just  _fit_ , you know? I thought I knew everything there was to know about his character. And then … he did what he did. And it was as if I never really knew him at all. What else is lurking in his psyche? What else don’t I know about?”

“I think you owe it to yourself—and to Henry—to hear what he has to say. Be cautious, of course, but if he _is_ telling the truth, if he  _has_  taken steps to vanquish his demons, there’s a very good chance you can have what you want.”

MacKenzie and the baby nap for a while and when she awakens, she notices a crumpled piece of paper on the floor next to the desk chair.

She picks it up and smooths it against her palm, flattening it so she can read it. It’s called “Reasons and rebuttals,” and it’s dated a month ago. A note not in Will’s hand is written in the top corner: _“Will, Sorry I missed our appointment the other day. Since next Friday is our last session before you head to DC, I thought I’d give you a little homework. My advice to you is this: think long and hard about what you want and why you want it before you see her. Love is one thing, forgiveness is another, and she may not be prepared to give you either. In any case, you need to be prepared. We can discuss next week. Ted.”_

The salutation and the headers ( _Reasons she shouldn’t/won’t forgive you, Reasons she should, Why you want her back_ ) pique her interest, so she can’t resist reading it. Will’s handwriting fills the page and the thought of him laboring over it gives her no small amount of pleasure.

_Reasons she shouldn’t/won’t forgive you:_

  * _Brutally hurt her (rebuttal: none; impossible to justify)_
  * _Said terrible things (rebuttal: I didn’t mean them (weak, very weak but true))_
  * _Ignored her (rebuttal: explain Ted’s theory? (maybe, but weak and inadequate))_
  * _In love with somebody else (rebuttal: fuck. Please God, no.)_
  * _Hates me (rebuttal: the opposite of love is indifference (think of something better, jackass))_
  * _Will want to make me pay for my sins (rebuttal: none; she’d be perfectly justified))_



_Reasons she should:_

  * _I’m the same guy who made her happy before—minus the ticking timebomb of my fucked-up childhood_
  * _I made her laugh_
  * _I’ll never hurt her again_
  * _we’re a phenomenal team_
  * _we fit_
  * _we’re perfectly suited to one another_
  * _~~mind-blowing sex~~_ _[absolutely true, but too intimate for first post-break-up discussion]_



She smiles at the last line, hastily scratched out in black ballpoint pen, and as she reads, she feels her defenses melt even more.

_Why you want her back:_

  * _I love her_
  * _I love her_
  * _I love her_
  * _She’s_  
  - _a visionary_  
_\- brilliant_  
_- loving_  
_- funny_  
_- devoted_  
_- drop-dead gorgeous_  
_- sexy_  
_- perfect_  
_- perfect_  
_- perfect_



_What you love about her:_

  * _she always does the right thing_
  * _she always knows just what to say_
  * _she smells_
  * _she looks_
  * _she never forgets what’s important_
  * _her ears turn pink when she’s embarrassed_
  * _her nose crinkles when she smiles_
  * _she doesn’t put up with my shit_
  * _~~she sounds when she comes~~_ _(don’t say that)_
  * _the way she loved me_



_Things you will do to keep yourself from hurting her again:_

  * _more therapy—daily sessions? Ted on retainer?_
  * _stop and think_
  * _remind myself that she’s the end game, nothing is more important than she is, or we are. Nothing._
  * _trust her_
  * _leave the room_
  * _talk to her, really listen to her; hear her_
  * _remind myself that I’m not omniscient and have limited interpretive powers_



She turns the page over and discovers a paragraph called “Speech”:

_“MacKenzie, I’m so sorry for what happened between us. You were right: it was all my fault. I’ve spent the last nine months being an idiot. I didn’t want to admit it because that would make me the villain, but I’ll admit it now. I did it because I have the coping skills of a child [etc., etc. explain Ted’s theory. Get to the point—quickly.] I know what to do now, to make sure it never happens again. You’ve been on my mind constantly and I’ve missed you so much. My life is a hundred thousand times better with you in it. I love you. Please tell me it’s not too late. [Need more than that, much more.]”_

She carefully folds the page, leans her head back against the headboard and thinks. She loves him and she wants him as badly as she ever did, but can she really afford to take that chance?


	13. Chapter 13

Charlie and Will leave and head to Will’s apartment so he can shower and shave. Will’s silent on the way over, consumed with thoughts of MacKenzie and Henry and wondering how in the hell he’s going to salvage his life.

“Think you’re going to be able to patch things up with MacKenzie?” Charlie asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, embarrassed. “She doesn’t trust me. And I don’t know how I can prove to her that she can.”

“You really screwed up, Will.”

“I did.”

“Well, I hope you can turn it around. Because I want that girl leading my newsroom.”

Will’s eyes swing up. “I’ll do my very best.”

“See that you do,” he says abruptly. Switching gears, he says, “That fact-checker’s a piece of work.”

“I wouldn’t judge Lena on the way she behaved this morning. She’s good. Great, actually. I have a lot of respect for her.” He’s silent a moment. “We used to be really good friends. She was Mac’s friend, first, but we were friends, too.”

“Well, I’m going to talk to Leona about bringing our fact-checking department back in-house. If Lena’s as good as you say she is, maybe we can bring her here.”

Will snorts, imagining a world in which the best parts of CBN’s newsroom—MacKenzie and Lena—were transplanted into ACN. It’s actually a pretty sweet thought.

Charlie and Will arrive at ACN, and Will spends the day preparing for the interview. MacKenzie is on his mind the entire time, so every single one of the questions he prepares is written with her in mind.  _Is this what she’d ask? Am I hitting the right tone? Assertive, but not too combative?_ He likes the president, having met him a couple of times before but he knows MacKenzie’s right: the American people deserve an answer, and it’s his job to get one. When the time comes to conduct the interview Will does it as he knows she would want him to, determined to make her proud. Charlie is delighted and the rest of the staff are sincerely (if reluctantly) impressed. Even Ralph—his EP—is forced to acknowledge Will did a masterful job, despite ignoring most of his direction.

President Obama, on the other hand, is much less impressed, and when the show ends, he says a curt goodbye to Will.

“Thanks for having me—well, taking me apart.”

“Sorry—” Will says, shaking his hand. “Thanks for coming on the show.”

The president snorts and leaves to be escorted to the green room.

Charlie is waiting outside the doors to the studio when Will emerges. He claps Will heartily on the back. “I think she’ll be proud of you, Will.”

“Who?”

“MacKenzie. That’s who you were trying to impress tonight, right?”

Will shrugs sheepishly.

“You heading back to the hotel?”

“Yes.”

“Tell her I said hello, and that I hope to see a lot of her in the future. I meant what I said, Will. I’d like her to lead this newsroom. Even if you can’t patch things up.”

“I’ll tell her.”

As he’s heading for the elevator, Carrie, the executive producer of the seven o’clock show approaches him. “You held the president’s feet to the fire tonight, Will. Well done.”

“Thanks,” he says, somewhat uneasily. Carrie is someone in whom he might have been interested before MacKenzie, and they’ve engaged in a bit of mild flirtation in recent months.

“I’m just heading out,” she tells him. “Want to go somewhere and celebrate?”

He smiles sheepishly at her. “Uh, no, thanks.”

“Got other plans?”

“Yes. I’m tending the sick,” he blurts out before he can censor himself.

_Why did I say that?_

“Oh?”

He’s thrown for a moment, trying to figure out how to phrase this in case things work out as he hopes. If MacKenzie comes to work at ACN it will be best if people think they’ve always been together. Best to pretend both the breakup (and the flirtation with Carrie) never happened.

“Yeah. My son … and … uh … fiancée …”

Her eyes widen.

“… have the flu. So, I don’t think we’ll be doing much celebrating.”

“Your son? Fiancée? I didn’t know you had either.”

“Well, he's only two months’ old. And we haven’t been engaged that long, so …”

“I see. Who’s the lucky woman?”

_Shit._

“MacKenzie. Her name is … MacKenzie.”

“MacKenzie McHale?”

_Why the hell couldn’t her parents have called her Jane?_

“Yes. You know her?”

“I've met her. She and I were on a panel together at Columbia in January. She’s … impressive. She was your EP, right? In DC?”

He nods.

“I thought she was with Pete Allen.”

_Does the whole world know?_

“She was. Briefly. They … dated … earlier this year. While we were on a break.” Besides, he has to justify the flirting somehow, doesn’t he? “… but we’re back together now … and … we’re getting married. As soon as I can—” _Convince her_. _Nope._ “Never mind.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“It’s complicated. I mean, not really, but kind of.”

“Perhaps that explains why she practically bolted from the room when I told her where I worked."

"Probably."

"Well, congratulations. On the baby … and the engagement.”

“Thanks.”

How the hell is he going to explain MacKenzie’s absence in his life if it doesn’t work out? He decides not to worry about that because failure is not an option.

When Will arrives at the hotel, he opens the door and surveys the scene in front of him. MacKenzie is in bed, breastfeeding the baby, looking pale and exhausted. “Hey,” he says softly. “How are you feeling?”

“Not great,” she whispers.

“Roger said he thought you were on the mend. Did you start feeling worse after he left?”

“Henry’s better and I thought I was, too, but now I just feel like crap.”

“Let’s stay here, tonight, then. Are Emma and Sarah still here?” he says, taking off his jacket.

“No, but their replacements are: Jane and Rachel. Can you please tell them they can go? And if you have any cash on you, they deserve a tip. They were a huge help today. We can figure out how to get one to Emma and Sarah tomorrow."

“I’ll take care of it.”

He knocks on the door to the adjoining room and shows the women out, then returns to sit on the edge of MacKenzie’s bed.

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know. I just want to sleep.”

“I’ll take him when you’re finished, and you can, okay?”

“Okay.”

He takes off his shirt and pants, sets them on the dresser and prepares to climb in beside her but stops when she looks at him quizzically. “I thought—do you want me to sleep in the other room?”

“I wish I did, but no. I don’t want you to.”

He kisses the baby’s forehead and settles in beside her. She looks so tired, so worn out that he wants to comfort her, so he tentatively wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she can’t help but sag against him.

“Did you have lunch and dinner?” he asks, stroking her hair.

“Soup,” she says. They’re silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. “I watched the show, Will.”

“Yeah?” he says, afraid to hear her assessment.

“You were brilliant. I was really proud of you.”

“It means a lot to me to hear you say that, Kenz. More than you know.”

The heat of the room and the low lights are making it hard for her to stay awake. She leans her head against his side and starts to doze off. When she feels the baby stop nursing, she awakens and starts to pull him up to her chest to get the wind out, but Will stops her. “May I?”

She nods dully, and he carefully takes the baby from her, brings him to his chest and expertly pats his back. “There you go, buddy.” He looks at MacKenzie. “Does he need more medicine, or should I change him and try to get him to sleep?”

“He just had some. He’ll need more in a few hours. He’s been awake most of the day, so I think he’s tired. Hopefully, we can all get some sleep now.”

Will changes the baby, who falls asleep as soon as he puts him in the crib.

Will climbs in beside MacKenzie and does what comes naturally to him: he pulls her close, and she doesn’t resist.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Trying to hit the reset button. This is exactly what I’d be doing if I hadn’t fucked things up. I love you, Mac. And I will do everything within my power to make you happy for the rest of my life.”

She reaches out to the bedside table where his crumpled note sits. She picks it up and hands it to him over her shoulder.

“You dropped your homework.” He takes it from her and swallows. Tries to make light of it. “Well, that’s embarrassing. What kind of grade do you give me?” he says when the silence stretches out a little too long.

She’s silent, weighing what she wants to say. She’s made her decision. It’s not the one she wants or the one that he wants, but she doesn’t have a choice. She twists on her side to look up at him. “The sentiments were lovely. Truly. I … appreciate them. It … means a lot to me to know that’s how you feel.”

"Does that mean we _don't_ need to have the conversation about how I'm going to prevent it from happening again? Or do you want me to read from the list?"

"We don't have to. I guess what you wrote is good enough. For now."

There’s a moment of silence as she drops her eyes to stare at a wrinkle in his t-shirt. She opens her mouth but doesn’t seem to be able to form any words. He takes encouragement from the fact that she’s opened the conversation but her inability to speak doesn’t necessarily bode well.

“But?”

“You have to know how much I love you, Will,” she says helplessly, raising her eyes to his. “But ...”

“MacKenzie—"

She reaches out to press her fingers against his lips. “Please. Let me finish.” She turns around to face him.

He bites back his next plea. Nods.

“I told you a little about how your betrayal affected me. But not all of it. And I need to. Will you hear me out?”

“Yes. But do you want to wait until you’re feeling better?”

“No. I need to tell you something. It can’t wait.”

“Okay,” he says softly, apprehension bubbling in his chest.

“I was devastated, Will. _Devastated._ Not just because I’d lost you but because I’d lost myself. I never imagined you would be able to do what you did to me. _Never_. It was inconceivable: I thought I knew you.” She takes a deep breath and forces herself to look into his eyes. What she sees there—the earnest, pleading look in his eyes—almost makes her reconsider her next words but she can’t. She forces herself to go on. “But the man I thought I knew never would have been able to erase me from his life like that. Not in a million years. It made me realize I never really knew you at all, and I didn’t understand how I could have been so wrong. Which meant I couldn’t trust my own judgment. It was … devastating.”

She stops, weighing her words, then forces herself to look him in the eye once more. “I spent the first month sobbing. All day long. In the control room, in rundown meetings, at the grocery store, you name it, I don’t think there’s a place I didn’t dissolve into tears. Everyone knew we’d broken up and they were so good to me but then I’d catch them looking at me with pity. They tried so hard to prop me up but the pain was unbearable. I thought I’d die from the strength of it. I spiralled down into a black hole of depression. I came to work, I cried, I did my job, I cried, I went home and cried myself to sleep, and then one day, about six weeks after you threw me out, I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I had to find a way out. So, I started making plans. Selling things off in preparation for my exit.”

“You were planning to move to London? Even then?”

“Not London, Will.” She looks at him steadily, then says softly, “I was planning to kill myself.”

His eyes widen, his jaw drops and the earth on which he’s standing crumbles beneath his feet. And then he’s falling, immobilized by a horror so profound he has no thought to try to grab onto anything to break his fall.

_No._

He jerks back, rolls out of bed and gets to his feet. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t believe it. _Refuses_ to believe it. It beggars belief. It literally fucking _beggars_ belief.

Not MacKenzie, the most unflappable person he’s ever known, the ass-kicking, take-no-prisoners, truth-telling, fire-breathing woman of his dreams who refuses to take shit from _anybody_ , including him.

“No,” he says, staring down at her.

“’No’ what?”

“That’s impossible.”

She stares at him. “What is?”

He points his finger at her. “That. What you just said.”

“Why?”

“You would _never_ do something like that,” he says harshly, his voice brittle and disbelieving. “Under _any_ circumstances. You could eat a Range Rover for breakfast, Mac. You’re telling me you’d kill yourself over a _guy_?”

“You weren’t just ‘a guy,’ Will. “You were the rest of my life.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m not buying it.”

“Excuse me?” she says, gazing up at him in wonder. “You think I’m trying to sell you something?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re trying to do. But I refuse to believe you would _ever_ get to that point—certainly not because of—”

“What? Because of you?”

“Because of _anything_ ,” he cries. Images flash before his eyes. Of picking up the phone. Hearing the words. _Feeling_ the words. Throwing up. The horror, the waste, the pure, unadulterated waste of it all. His own guilt. A too-late awareness of his own pettiness. What the fuck is a sin of omission compared to MacKenzie being _gone_ , never to return?

It could have happened. It almost did happen. 

The fear over what might have been bursts forth from him in a tidal wave of emotion. He stares down at her, his expression a mixture of horror and outrage, his voice threatening to rise to a crescendo. “Jesus Christ! How could you be so selfish?”

“Keep your voice down!” she hisses. “You’ll wake the baby!”

The horrible squeezing in his chest makes his words come out in short, clipped bursts, albeit at a lower volume. “Do you know what that would have done to your father? Or your _mother_?” he hisses, his voice thin with fury. _Or to me?_ he wants to say but refrains from doing so for obvious reasons. “Or your brothers and sisters? It would have _destroyed_ them. And for _what_? Some asshole who isn’t even worthy of shining your shoes?”

She looks at him in wonder. “I don’t know what amazes me more—the fact that you think you have the right to lecture me on my moral failings as a depressed person or that you’ve fixated on something that has absolutely nothing to do with the point of this story.”

He ignores her. “How _could_ you?” he bites out. “How could you even _think_ —”

“You have _no_ idea what it was like for me, Will. _None._ So. let. me. enlighten. you,” she bites out. “I was in _agony_ ,” she says, shuddering as she’s reminded of the excruciating months when she could barely get out of bed. When she could barely tie her shoes or remember to run a comb through her hair. Hours spent trying to focus on her job when all she could think was, _You_ _said you loved me. How could you just abandon me?_ And then, later: _When the fuck is this going to end? How can I endure it?_  

“I missed you terribly,” she continues. “I couldn’t understand what had happened. I couldn’t fathom it. Every day was torture, every moment more hideous than the last. There was no end in sight. And I had to make it _stop_.”

He blinks at the weight of her words, then exhales softly. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Mac. I had no idea—fuck.”

He sits down heavily on the bed. She stares at him, the strength of her gaze making him want to turn away. Her eyes betray conflict and pain but there’s no blame there. Clearly, she doesn’t blame him for sending her off the deep end. Not exactly. “I know. It’s not your fault. The idea that it was an acceptable solution was obviously already in my head, Will. Latent. Maybe it just took the right trigger. Like it did for you.”

 _The right trigger._ As if the presence of a trigger absolves a person of responsibility, of making the right choice. _No._ “You can’t just give in to triggers that will destroy you, Mac!”

“That’s an interesting pronouncement, coming from you.”

He exhales slowly, trying to get a handle on his emotions. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I reacted that way. I just—“ He clasps his hands in his lap and looks down before forcing himself to look back at her once more, all the anger gone. Instead, his eyes are warm and beseeching and tender. “I’m so sorry, Mac. I’m _so_ sorry.”

“I know,” she says softly.

He nods, looking down again. “Promise me something, will you?” he says, taking her hand in his and staring into her eyes. “Promise me that if doing something like that ever crosses your mind again, you will tell me. Or, if I’m not around, if I’ve already shuffled off my mortal coil after eating one-too-many bacon-and-egg sandwiches, you will call someone who loves you, and you will tell them what you’re thinking. Because anyone who loves you—hell, anyone who’s even just _met_ you—will tell you the same thing I would: that a world without you in it is not worth living in.”

“I will,” she says, squeezing his hand.

He looks down at their joined hands and nods before looking up at her again. “But you didn’t go through with it. What happened?”

“Three days before the … _day,_ ” she says, pausing. “… I realized I was pregnant.”

Three days. Three _days_. _Oh, my God._ He can’t speak.

“I knew my period was overdue,” she continues, “But, as you know, it’s always been irregular, and I didn’t realize how long it had been. Anyway, I’d been feeling nauseous for a while. Dizzy. Light-headed. So, I finally put two and two together. I took a home pregnancy test, and I was stunned. I went to the clinic, and they confirmed it. I called you. Realized you’d changed your number, so I tried email. It bounced back. I sent you a letter. Didn’t hear back. I kept trying to reach you, but it was radio silence all the way. I thought about abortion, but I couldn’t do it. Knowing I was pregnant, it gave me … I don’t know … _hope_ … for the future. Like … maybe my life wasn’t going to unfold the way I’d planned, but suddenly, it wasn’t just me anymore. Our _child_ was growing within me. And even if his father was a monster, Henry was innocent. It woke me up. So, I started seeing a therapist, started feeling a little more like myself.”

She squeezes his hand. “I’m telling you all this to help you understand the decision I’ve made. About us.”

She stops, her words arrested by his horrified expression.

“Listen to me,” she says, twisting around to look him full in the eyes. “I’ve spent the entire day turning it over in my mind, trying to work out what’s best for me and Henry, and I keep coming to the same conclusion: I just don’t think I can risk falling back into a relationship with you.” He flinches and presses his lips into a thin line, even as he remains silent. “As much as I feel for you, as much as I want our life back—and even with as much therapy as I’ve had in the last few months—there’s no guarantee I’d survive another betrayal. And now that we have Henry … I can’t take that chance, Billy. I just can’t.” She’s so sorry to say it, so sorry to have concluded there is no fucking way for her to have what she wants without risking her sanity, but what other choice does she have?

The pain is a knife to his stomach, and he exhales softly, utterly defeated. As much as he wants to argue with her and tell her there _has_ to be another way, her life and mental health are more important than their relationship—on any scale. He drops her hand, puts his arm around her shoulders and enfolds her in his arms. She buries her face in his neck, and when she pulls back to look at him, he can see her eyes are brimming with tears, and he thinks maybe she’s disappointed, as if she, too, was hoping he could produce a magic bullet that would allow them to move forward together. “I’m sorry I hurt you so badly that you would think that was your only option—that—” He can’t finish it.

She shakes her head ruefully, astounded by her mercurial sentiments. “Christ, Will. You see how it is? One word from you and here I go again, changing my mind. The way we are now, talking like this, holding each other like this. This is us. This is who we are to each other. I have cried so many tears over the last ten months wishing I could have just one more moment like this with you. Wishing I could have a lifetime of moments like this with you. You’re what I want. What I crave. But I’m terrified. I don’t know what to do. If I give you up, what am I supposed to do with the love I have for you? Where do I put those feelings?”

“I don’t know, honey. I’ve spent the last ten months asking myself the same question.”

“If it was simply a matter of spending the rest of my days with the man you were when we were together or the man you’ve been since you showed up here last night, I could do that … happily. Without reservation, but … I’m afraid, Will. I’m so afraid."

"Of what, exactly? What can I do to reassure you? Tell me, and I’ll do it."

"It’s not something you can do. The problem is what you’ve already done."

Will gazes at her uncomprehendingly.

"The man you were when we were together before … and the man you’ve been in the last 24 hours: the honorable, loving man I’ve known you to be—I can’t reconcile it with what you did. You can kiss me now and tell me you love me and that you’ll protect me from further pain but how can I trust you when you were the one who made the cut in the first place?"

He picks up one of Henry’s pacifiers and strokes it between his fingers. "MacKenzie …" he starts before trailing off into silence. He has no defense.

"You erased me from your life, Will. Cast me off without looking back. And now you’re offering marriage and declaring you’re willing to fight for us. What have I done to be worthy in your mind now when I wasn’t worthy before?"

"You’ve always been worthy. The failing was with me, MacKenzie. I was hurt, and I cut you off in the same way I’ve been cutting people off since I was a kid."

MacKenzie shakes her head. "No. It can’t be explained away like that. Not quite like that. You have to feel something almost like hatred for the other person to cut them off like that—no, not hatred; hatred requires too much consideration on the part of the one who hates—it’s more like you have to think so little of the person that you can’t imagine—or worse, don’t care—how they’ll feel. To do what you did … you had to have thought I was … subhuman, almost … completely unworthy of …” she fumbles for the right words. “… civility … or … even … human _kindness._ ”

The fragility in her bright eyes is such that he feels it should not have been handed to someone such as him to handle. Like his mother’s fine china, it makes him feel like a clumsy giant only capable of destroying something so precious and delicate.

"It wasn’t about you. It was about me. But I don’t know what to say or do," he says, his tone a mix of exasperation and apprehension. “Tell me, and I’ll do it.”

"I need the truth.”

"I don’t understand what you mean. I’ve confessed my sins. I’ve said I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to demonstrate that I am."

"I don’t want your contrition, Will. I want to _understand_. For three-and-a-half years, we shared everything. We were partners. Comrades. Lovers. Best friends. But that didn’t count for _anything_ on the scale you used to decide whether or not to abandon me. In the end, you determined I hadn’t even earned the right to be treated with common decency."

"You had earned the right. It was me—"

"I know it was you. I know it was you who decided I was unworthy. But all I can think is that you wouldn’t have made that decision if you’d truly loved me.”

He shakes his head. “That isn’t true. You’re talking about an evolved sort of love. A mature sort of love. I don’t think I knew what that was until two months ago when I realized I had a choice in how I responded, and that I have limited interpretive powers.”

“I’m sorry. That isn’t good enough.”

He gets up and the pacifier, forgotten in his lap, clatters to the floor.

“What do you want from me?”

“I don’t know. But if you want me to marry you, if you want me to put myself completely at your mercy, I need to know you’ve conquered your demons. And I can’t know that unless you’ve laid them all out for me. Have you? Have you shown me your vilest tendencies? The kind you prefer to keep hidden—even from yourself? Or is there another bomb inside you just waiting for the right trigger to detonate?”

He stares at her. “So, you’ve changed your mind. You’re open to being convinced.”

“As of this moment, yes. But who knows how I’ll feel in five minutes?” she says, giving a hollow laugh. “I seem to change my mind every other second.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Why what I felt didn’t matter to you.”

He runs his fingers through his hair and takes a long, hard look at her. Can he really afford to be honest with her? Does he have a choice?

“Cards on the table?” he says softly.

“Cards on the table.”

“Okay. Did I think that if you grieved the loss of our relationship, it was no more than you deserved? Yes. I thought that. Did I think the weight of the three-and-a-half years we spent together didn’t mean shit against the weight of your deceit? I thought that, too. Because I was self-doping, Mac. Wallowing in self-righteous indignation, which desensitizes you to your opponent’s pain.”

“You thought I deserved it.”

“Yes. Because I’d convinced myself you never loved me. But what I refused to acknowledge until—I’m ashamed to say—very recently—is that even though we all think we’re scientists discovering the objective truth, we’re really just lawyers defending a position we’ve arrived at some other way. But self-righteousness is a drug, Mac. You know that. You get high on knowing you’re absolutely right and your opponent is absolutely wrong.”

“You rejoiced in hurting me. You actively enjoyed it.”

He looks down and takes a deep breath before raising his head to meet her eyes once more. “Yes,” he says softly. “I’ll admit it. It felt good—what I did to you. Really, really _good_. Because I had the pleasure of knowing, with absolute certainty, that I was right, and you were deeply, despicably wrong. It was so intense and so delicious that whenever my conscience started pushing me to consider there might be other ways of looking at what happened (which it did, constantly), I shoved it down so I could keep on living in my echo chamber. You’re not the first person I’ve done it to. I’m sorry.”

She’s silent for a moment, considering. “I wasn’t just some schoolyard playmate, Will. I was your partner—I wasn’t supposed to be expendable.”

“I know. But I was in pain and pain is too stupid to see beyond itself. My therapist has a theory. He thinks I did it because I was tired of feeling out-of-control, and I pinned every negative thing about my life on you. I was miserable, Mac. I hated my job, and I hated living in this city without you. Everything about my life made me feel raw and exposed, which I have never been able to tolerate. And you telling me about your ex was the last straw. I just—went dead inside. Like I always do when I get flooded with too many negative emotions. It’s a self-protective thing. It’s stupid and destructive, but it has saved me more times than I can count. Because when it happens, I don’t have to feel vulnerable anymore. I don’t have to feel anything. But it’s also cost me a lot of relationships. In fact, I think I owe several people an apology.” He stares at her. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ve just revealed my vilest self to you. But now that you’ve heard it, you also have to be willing to hear the other side, which is that I have _always_ loved you. Even when I was pretending I didn’t, even when I blamed you for my suffering, I have _always_ loved you.”

“I think love is trying to do what’s right for the person, even when it’s hard. I think it means forcing yourself to take a step back even when it feels like you can’t.”

“I couldn’t do that before, but I can now. I _will_ now. Because I know how to do it now. I was an idiot then. But I will do whatever I have to do to be worthy of you. You’re afraid of what I might do with the right stimulus. But if I can guarantee that I will take a step back and refuse to react in the heat of the moment, you will be safe from anything you might have to fear from me.”

She clenches her fists in frustration. “I don’t know what to do, Will. I love you so much, but I’m clearly unstable. Even now. Just look at how erratically I’ve behaved in the last twenty-four hours. Saying I loathe you one minute, asking you to make love to me the next, telling you this morning I want to patch things up, telling you now I can’t. I was suicidal not nine months ago, and here I am having unprotected sex with you. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. What does that say about me?”

“It says you’re conflicted. That’s all. It doesn’t mean you’re unstable.”

She imagines what her life will look like without him: watching Henry shuttle between two houses. Trying to find someone else who inspires even a fraction of the amount of the passion and joy she feels with Will. Watching Will move on with someone else. She doesn’t have a choice. Not really. Everything she wants in this life is in this room.

She glances up and sees him looking at her with fear and apprehension. “You’ll come to therapy with me?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll never let anything come between us again? No matter what happens?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. We’ll stay.”

“For how long?”

“I'd like to say 'Long enough to see if we can put us back together again,' but I don't have that luxury. Not with the job in London. I'm going to have to turn them down. And, if I do that, we either have to stay in DC, even though I've already given notice on my job and the apartment, or we have to stay with you and hope for the best." She looks at him with such vulnerability it makes his heart lurch in his chest. "It's a big gamble, Will. But I don't seem to have many options."

He gets up from the floor and sits beside her. "Listen to me. I want you, and I want us to be together more than anything in the world. But it can't be at your expense. So, if, after we go to therapy, after we do whatever we can to repair the damage, if it's not enough, if you decide that we don't belong together, I'll support you in that. Financially, physically, whatever. You can count on me to help you implement whatever decision you make. Whether it's finding a new job or a new place in a new city—so long as you don't mind me moving to the same city—I won't fight you on it. Your mental health is the most important thing, MacKenzie. It's more important than our relationship."

Relief floods through her. She doesn't quite believe his promise not to fight her on her decision—should it be negative—but at least he understands. She doesn't have to make a final decision _now_. She doesn't have to decide _now_. He can be—or at least, he can try to be—patient.

"Okay. How about this? I was planning to put our stuff in storage until I got settled, so I'll still do that. We have until the first to move out, so we'll do that, only instead of moving to London, we'll move here. With you. Or maybe we should live apart ... I don't know." She looks at him, and she can see him biting his tongue, wanting to protest, but he doesn't. At least he's taking her seriously.

"Whatever you want," he tells her. "What would you prefer?"

She raises her hand to his cheek. "Honestly, I'd prefer to live with you. Maybe with the option of moving out if it doesn't go well?"

"Okay," he says, exhaling loudly with relief. _It will go well. It will absolutely go well._

"So ... it's semi-settled, then? We're back together—on a trial basis?"

"Yes."

His expression quickly changes into one of obvious relief, a hesitant smile making his eyes crinkle. "I can live with that." 

“Me, too. It's just—"

"What?"

"I need you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Please don't make a fool of my heart, Billy. I couldn't bear it." The fragility in her eyes makes his eyes mist over as he shakes his head. “I won’t. You’ll never regret it, Kenz,” he whispers. “ _Never_. I promise.”

“I’ll be holding you to that,” she says softly. He frames her face with his hands and kisses her sweetly, reverently. He’s so grateful, so unbelievably _grateful_ she’s giving him the chance to turn this shit show around.

Despite her headache, despite her sore throat, despite the aches coursing through her body, she can’t help but laugh at his impassioned response. “I believe you, Billy. But you have to understand something,” she says, looking at him seriously. “This is your last chance. If you ever shut me out again, physically—or emotionally—there will be no coming back from it. I will take Henry, and any other children we may have, and I will _leave_  you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

"Okay." Her eyes are shining with unshed tears and his lips find hers before another word can be uttered. Desire flows through them both like wine, heady and intoxicating, causing them to lose themselves in the moment. MacKenzie’s arms slip around his neck, holding him tight and fast, while Will’s embrace pulls her against his body. Although nothing is set in stone, although she hasn't agreed to become his wife or even his girlfriend on anything other than a trial basis, he _knows_ it's going to work out. He _knows_ it. He will never give her cause to repine. She will never regret it. Not for a second. And as he thinks this, the void within him is filled as the certainty he’s so longed for finally finds him. Again. 


	14. Chapter 14

_Two years later_

“Good morning, my love,” MacKenzie says, staring down into her husband’s face. Will’s eyes open and he stares sleepily into those of his wife, who bends down to kiss him softly. “’Morning,” he says, smiling up at her. He wraps both arms around her bare back and tugs her down so he can kiss her properly.

Eager to pull him closer, she slides her hands beneath his armpits, accidentally tickling him.

“Hey, no fair,” he says, reaching under her arms to respond in kind.

“It was an accident!” she protests, laughing.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, redoubling his efforts.

“I’ll show you, Will McAvoy,” she counters. She pulls her hands up, slides them into his armpit and begins to tickle him in earnest. Her movements intensify as they tussle, both laughing until tears are streaming down her cheeks. He holds her fast around her waist and pulls her closer to prevent her tumbling from the bed. She squeals, giggles, and squirms, and as he laughs at her excitement, he finds himself becoming excited in a wonderfully different way. He renews his efforts, tickling her until she’s gasping for breath.

“Will! _Stop!_ Your sister will—”

“My sister? Do I have a sister?’

Will pulls her more closely to him and she tries to break from his grasp, reaching out to the bed post for leverage.

“William Duncan McAvoy,” she says threateningly. “You are an evil, wicked, _vile_ man.” At first, Will tries to fake his remorse—badly—but soon gives up, grabbing her around the waist, tickling her back into the bed and resuming his inventory of kisses: first her forehead, then her eyes, then her nose…

“No! No, you don’t,” MacKenzie laughs. “Not again, oh, Will! You’ve made us late for breakfast every morning since we got here. It’s beyond embarrassing! Your whole family—” She stops for a moment, tilting her head to the side and points to a spot just beneath her ear. “Wait—you missed a spot.” He addresses the oversight and continues his barrage of kisses to the underside of her throat. “Oh, that feels—wait.” She wrenches herself a few inches away from him. “Stop trying to distract me… your whole _evangelical Christian_ family knows what we’re doing; they’re not stupid! We need to wake the children and get them dressed—have you forgotten how long it takes to convince Henry he needs to wear pants?" 

“He’s two. He doesn’t need to wear pants,” Will says, placing a well-aimed kiss on the hollow of her throat, eliciting a pleased—if reluctant—sigh from his wife.

“—or to persuade Amelia her shoes are just as nice as Henry’s?” He pulls her into his body, making her relax a bit more.

“Maybe she knows something you don’t. Sure, those little pink sneakers are cuter than the ones he wears, but are they as _comfortable_?”

“They’re the same shoes, Will. The girl version. She just wants his because he has them,” she murmurs, enjoying the little sparks of pleasure her husband is igniting throughout her body.

“Well, she’ll inherit them soon enough. That’s the beauty of having two kids eleven months apart.” He strokes the outside of her thigh, then dips his hand at the apex of her legs. 

“Can you believe we have two children eleven months apart?” she says softly, relaxing into him. 

“I can’t believe we have two children, period, and another one on the way.”

“And _I_ can’t believe you can’t believe that, given your libido and antipathy towards birth control.”

“It’s your fault my libido is so high. There’s just something about you, Mac. No drug could be more potent.” His lips part and she stares at them, suddenly reminded of the sensual power of his tongue. “Even after you’ve taken everything I have,” he says, nuzzling her ear. “Even after you’ve left me blind and lax and completely sated, the desire I have for you … it’s as heightened afterwards as it was before.”

“You’re such a sweet-talker, Will. It’s no wonder I keep getting pregnant.”

“It’s kind of surprising, though. We weren’t exactly careful, and it took you three-a-and-half years to get pregnant with Henry. Now you can’t stop getting pregnant.”

“The dam broke.”

“So, it did.”

“This is our last child, Will. I mean it. I’m so busy going on maternity leave our staff barely know who I am.”

“They know who you are. I make them kiss your picture every morning.” He runs his hand up her arm and up her neck. “Oh, wait. That’s me.” He leans in to kiss the delicate flesh beneath her ear.

“I don’t believe you.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I pity you. You’re so jaded you can’t imagine your husband misses you when you’re not around.”

He reaches out to the bedside table for his wallet, takes out a laminated photo of her and the kids and hands it to her.

“Oh yes,” she says, noting the scratches across her face. She rubs her finger across the surface. “I can see the slobber marks. It’s quite unhygienic. Do you honestly kiss it every morning?”

“Well, not every morning. _Most_ mornings.”

“Why would you kiss a photograph when you can kiss the real thing?”

“Sometimes, the real thing isn’t with me. Besides, the photograph doesn’t talk back.”

“Or put Cheerios down your collar.”

“Or throw up on my shoes. I hope the kids don’t start following your example.”

“I had morning sickness!”

“So? That didn’t make it any more appealing.”

“You have no idea what it takes to grow an eight-pound infant in your body, Will. You were just there for the fun part. And the nausea with Amelia was even worse than it was with Henry. Not that you’d know about that.”

He pulls back to look at her, a mildly amused smirk on his face. “You just can’t resist, can you?”

“What?”

“The little jabs. The little reminders that I am _not_ forgiven.”

“You’re _mostly_ forgiven. You should be grateful I can’t hold a grudge like you can.”

“Could.”

“ _Could_ , then. I’ll admit you’ve been working very hard on your demons. I can see the change. You handled that picture of Pete and me very well.”

“Fucking Lena. ‘Accidentally’ emailing it to our shared email address the day after he was in town and failing to mention it was a year old. You’re lucky I didn’t cancel the wedding over that stunt. I should have.”

“Will!”

“Come on, it was cruel and deranged. I should have asked Charlie to fire you both.”

“I had to be sure you’d truly conquered your demons. Besides, I was still angry then. Still deep in my unhinged phase. Remind me, though. How jealous were you when you saw that picture?”

“Enough to murder him. And you. _And_ Lena.”

“Tell me again how you felt when you saw it.”

“Do you really want to go there?”

“Yes, because I’m petty, gossipy, childish and hormonal. And I know the picture doesn’t bother you as much as it used to, so humor me. You know I love it when you’re jealous.” 

“How the hell do you think I felt? You were sitting in his lap. I was devastated. I thought you were still seeing him.”

“Billy, I would never cheat on you.”

“No, you just like to make me think you would.”

“I told you, I was psychotic then.”

“What’s your excuse for bringing it up now? I have half a mind to do it to you, Sweetheart.”

“Don’t bother. I wouldn’t believe it.”

“Is that a challenge?” he says, kissing her ear.

“Oh, keep doing that,” she says, sighing. “No, I’m just saying I wouldn’t believe that particular ruse.”

“So, I’ll have to think of something even more diabolical?” he says, cupping her breast.

“Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he says, withdrawing his hand.

“Not _that_ —please keep doing _that_ ,” she says, bringing his hand back to her breast. “Try to get even, I mean. Please don’t try to do _that_.”

“I don’t know … you’ve seriously spoiled my mood. I was about to lead you down Ecstasy Lane and you had to bring up that stunt.”

“Sorry. I was still holding it against you then.”

“The breakup?”

“Yes.”

“Well, on a scale of one to ten, ten being the way you felt the night you showed up with Henry, how badly do you hold it against me right this minute?”

“I don’t know … maybe … a … three? When I think about it? I try not to.”

“Well, even if it’s four-and-a-half, I don’t want to hear it. We’re even now.”

“Hardly.”

“I practically had an embolism when I saw that picture, Mac. We’re even.”

“I’ll let you know when we’re even, Billy,” she says, kissing him, then trying to pull away. He redoubles his efforts, kissing every bit of skin within reach.

“ _Will._ We can’t do this,” she says unconvincingly. “We need to dress the children and join your family for breakfast before they stop bothering with it altogether.”

“There’s a McDonald’s five miles down the road.”

“I am _not_ eating at McDonald’s. And neither are you.”

“We’ll get it to go, then.”

“Will.”

He frames her face with his hands and kisses her soundly. “This would go a lot faster if you’d stop talking and let me get back to work.”

“And what work is that?”

“Loving you.” He pulls back to look at her. “You know how much I do, right?”

“Love me?”

He nods.

“Not really, no.”

“You should.”

“Place no more reliance on thought transference, Will. I’m not a mind-reader.’

“Fine. I am so in love with you—and with our _family_ —that I am overflowing. Just when I think it can’t possibly get any better than it already is, it does. It just keeps getting better and better.”

“Oh, you _are_ lovely.”

He places his palm gently on her burgeoning abdomen. “And when this little one joins us, it will be even better.”

“You say that now. What if it—or _they_ —are night owls like their dad? Amelia’s only been sleeping through the night for a few months. Are you sure you’re ready to anchor the show on two hours of sleep again? ACN will have to double the make-up staff.”

“’ _They_ ’?” he says in alarm.

She kisses his shoulder. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she says merrily. “At the last scan, Dr. Stevens saw two shapes on the ultrasound. It could have just been the way the baby’s positioned but twins are a possibility.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“ _Four_ kids under the age of three? Oh, my God.”

“Are you rethinking your position on birth control yet?”

“I’m not against birth control.”

“Why do we never use it, then?”

“Maybe I’m trying to tie you to me,” he says, nuzzling her ear. “To make sure you don’t leave.”

“Are you?”

“Maybe.”

“How very primitive of you. Well, we have to do something—unless you’re planning to take paternity leave for the next five children. My career won’t survive another employment lapse.”

“I can do that.”

“Hah. You say that now, but just wait. Besides—do you really think it’s fair to a child to bring it into the world just so I won’t leave?”

“That’s not why, Mac. I love you, and the kids are just a product of that love.”

“The cost of childcare for four kids will take up most of my salary, so the more we have, the less financial incentive there will be for one of us to work. You make far more than I do, so that means the burden will fall on me, and I’m not ready to retire. This is it, Will. This is our last one. Or two, if it turns out to be twins. I want us to start looking at birth control options now. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” he says, kissing her shoulder.

“I’m never going to leave you, by the way,” she tells him.

“Never?”

“Never. I adore you." 

“Even now, after two years of marriage and two kids?”

“Especially now. When I see how you are with Henry and Amelia, I fall in love with you all over again. You are a spectacular father.”

“Spectacular, huh?”

“Yes, my love,” she says, kissing him. “ _Spectacular_.”

“Which adjective would you put in front of ‘husband’?”

“The same.”

“The feeling is definitely mutual. On both counts. How about ‘anchor’?”

“Oh, I don’t know. ‘ _Fair’_ to ‘ _middling_ ’?”

Will huffs. “Two Peabodys suggest otherwise.”

“You share those with me, husband.”

“You have to admit, we make a great team. On every level.”

“We do.”

“I told you it would be worth it.”

“Getting back together?”

“Yep.”

“You did. And you were right.” She burrows into him as closely as she can. “I love you, Will,” she says, kissing him. “…I love you, I love you, I _love_ you,” she says, punctuating each “love you” with a kiss.

"Ditto. A thousand times over."

THE END.


End file.
